


Ever Unbending - First Draft

by General_Lee



Series: Who We Are Now [7]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: Action, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, During Canon, Explicit Language, Feels, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Canon, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-21 19:25:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 31,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8257585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Lee/pseuds/General_Lee
Summary: Season 2: A Blind Betrayal AdaptationFormer Paladin Danse has two choices – go it alone or accept assistance from the one person he would never have asked.





	1. M7-97

**Author's Note:**

> Theme for chapter 1: [2CELLOS - Mombasa from INCEPTION](https://youtu.be/LY39km8rkWY/)  
> A nice way to get the action juices flowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 1: [2CELLOS - Mombasa from INCEPTION](https://youtu.be/LY39km8rkWY/)  
> A nice way to get the action juices flowing.

DANSE

The Glowing Sea, MA

December 22rd, 2287

The Knight’s welcome return to Sanctuary Hills had instigated a rapid series of proceedings. Within a few weeks, contact had been made with the Institute and the time to strike would soon be at hand.

He was relieved to be free of the complications that life in Sanctuary had brought. Recent events had threated to leave Paladin Danse in a state of self-doubt. Now, even a dull exercise such as guarding a Brotherhood requisitioned cache of nukes was a welcomed return to normal. He had just barely been able to convince his new protégé to leave and return to Proctor Ingram with good news and better fortune.

An intersystem icon blinked on a sub-screen of his visor, a message sent to the entire faction. He would check it shortly. For now, as he waited for transport to arrive that would carry the nuclear reserve all the way back to the airport, he locked the legs on his armor to rest. The suit would remain upright until reengaged. Sealed in safety, he let his eyes slide closed. He hadn’t slept in days – not uncommon for him, but still draining.

Haylen’s voice jolted him to attention, sounding tinny from within his helmet, cutting in and out between bouts of static. “ _Paladin…do not…Danse…you there_?”

“Haylen?” he asked through the communication system.

“ _…frequency…not secure. Repeat: do not…Prydwen_.”

“I don’t understand...”

“ _Dammit, Danse. Check…file_.”

The message icon continued blinking on a sub-screen corner, tiny and unassuming. He activated it.

Displayed across the visor, in scrolling lines of yellow font, he read

_This is a priority alert. Paladin Danse has been identified as an Institute synth by our command staff. Its current whereabouts are unknown. If it's spotted, terminate immediately. Do not attempt to approach. If you are unable to engage, report Danse's last known location to any duty officer as soon as possible so we can track its movement. This attempt by the Institute to tear the Brotherhood down from the inside has failed. Despite their treachery, we will persevere and emerge victorious. Ad victoriam, brothers and sisters._

He briefly wondered if he had fallen asleep to dream the strangest of scenarios. He read it again.

“ _Danse_!” Haylen screamed at him, her voice shrill in his ears.

The words on the display floated in and out of sequence. All but one: synth.

_Synth._

It stood out like blood on snow.

“ _Danse_!” Haylen yelled again. The static cleared. “ _A deployment is en route to the Sentinel Site. They aren’t going to talk to you, they aren’t going to listen, and they aren’t going to stop_.”

He felt stunned, numb. This had to be some jest that he didn’t understand. “I…I have to stay with the ammunition stores…”

“ _Danse, please. Please, listen to me_.” She sounded on the verge of hysteria. “ _You have to run. Now.”_

His Brothers were coming to kill him. He begged and battled with himself not to believe it.

“ _Where would you be safe? Where would no one look for you_?”

“I don’t…” A memory surfaced.  He took a breath. “Where it all started,” he said with conviction. “The very first place I visited in the Commonwealth. An old listening post north of the remnants of Boston.”

_“Go. I’ll find assistance.”_

He had no reason to not trust Haylen.

Danse promptly wove his way out of the Sentinel Site. As he threw the outer door open he was met with the sight of a roiling sky, lighting crashing in jade hues, and boiling puddles of toxic waste. Thunder clashed amongst winds gusting.

There were also three Brotherhood soldiers that stood before him, all in armor, protecting them from the elements.

He raised one hand over his shoulder and met empty air. He had given his trusty rifle to the new Knight. His only defense was an inferior laser pistol. He pulled it from his hip.

“M7-97, lay down your arms,” a solider ordered.

Danse wasn’t sure who he was addressing.

“Danse, don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be,” said another.

Danse raised the pistol. There was a jolt in his stomach. He was instantly sick. It felt inherently wrong to raise arms against his Brothers or Sisters. He shakily lowered his weapon.

“Exit your power armor,” the third solider spoke.

There was a moment where he considered it.

Instead, he ran.

He pushed his suit to the limits of its mobility as he tore around the deployment, setting a straight course for obstacles rising on the horizon. Laser fire seemed to erupt from every direction, turning sand to glass where it struck the dunes. He fired at a few enormous insects than blocked his path, turning them to ash. Running flat out, he crested a ridge that sloped down at a sharp angle on the other side. The grade almost caused him to roll. He stumbled before straightening and wove a jagged path, avoiding laser beams as they shot past him.

He came upon the skeletal remains of a long-wrecked airplane lying in forgotten sections all over the tertian. Gripping a seatback for leverage, he swung himself up and into the main cabin of the plane. He moved down the aisle, his wide shoulders occasionally bumping into the overhead compartments. He paused in a galley. There was no sound. No one was shouting at him and laser fire was silent. He allowed for a single deep breath.

His suit began to chime a pinging alarm that was intrusively loud. His location transmitter had been activated. Danse’s own suit of armor now stood as an additional betrayer.   

He ran through the remainder of the airplane, the weaving steel beams creating a dangerous web of uneven footing and long drops down. Danse could hear the other soldiers calling for him, warning him to stop.

When he approached the tail end, he nearly fell through it. Gasping for breath in his suit, he looked down. The tail of the plane jutted up vertically from the ground, wedged amongst two hills. At the bottom, past a hole where the rudder had been, lay the entrance to a twisting path that led out of the Sea. He could see unbroken power lines still strung in the distance.

“Danse!” a solider called, encroaching on his location. He turned and saw all three of the approaching soldiers close in. “Drop your weapon!”

The alarm on his suit still rang. There would be no hiding if he remained in it.

Danse looked down the tail section once more. He backed away from the envoys, nearly to the edge of the drop down the tail. His tossed his laser pistol down into the maw. He faced his opponents and glanced down at his suit. Three beads of red light danced over his torso. He looked back up at the others.

“Come and take me,” he said.

He stepped backwards and plummeted through the tail section.

He came to a stop with a crunching thud, armored shoulders too broad to completely fall through the wreckage. He pulled at the release valve of his suit. His uniform pulled free from the interfacing systems with a succession of suction pops. There was a short sensation of free fall as his suit was abandoned above him. He hit irradiated soil hard enough to jar his spine. His armor wedged the gap, preventing the other soldiers from dropping down to pursue him.

He pawed for his laser pistol and retrieved it, shaking sand from the weapon.

Exposed to the elements, he ran. The heat of the Sea stung at him, bathing him with fine needlepoints of pain on the exposed skin of his face, searing his lungs. He headed towards the power lines. As he sprinted the breadth between The Glowing Sea and the remains of Middlesex County, the sky turned from fiery sienna to green, then to a blotchy gray before eventually deepening to black with pinpricks of stars. He was near exhaustion when he finally reached a fractured stretch of old highway.

He bent double, winded. His head swam. 

Without Haylen or his family in arms to support him, Danse felt intensely alone.

He turned north, his only possession a laser pistol containing five rounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: John from Diamond City
> 
> A note on notes: I will always post a link to a thematic song cover that I feel matches the tone of that specific chapter at the very top of the notes, above the name of the character we are following. I believe that listening to this piece of music will heighten my intent - things are funnier, or more intense, or really, really fucking sad - and great care has been taken to get each song selection just right. I will always post the title of the upcoming work as well along with occasional behind-the-scenes info. (But, please, really do listen to the music - it goes hand in hand with the story.)
> 
> Welcome to Season Two! I hope this starts off with a bang! In many ways I feel that Season One was just me feeling out the series before I really got down into the meat of the tale that I really want to tell. If you're just joining me for the first time, please go back and read the first story (or else things will be very confusing) and be sure to let me know what you think.
> 
> I would like to thank my amazing beta, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/), for all of her help on both of these seasons.
> 
> Please leave me comments and kudos below!  
> \-- General Lee


	2. John from Diamond City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter two: [Walk the Line (Denmark + Winter) ](https://youtu.be/eamfAYgqAlo/)  
> What a sweet, sad song....There is a definite shift in the tone of the song, same as in the chapter.

HAYLEN

Old State House, MA

December 24th, 2287

Somewhere overhead, a woman said, “Hey, boss – you’re gonna want to see this.” Her voice echoed slightly, bouncing down from the rafters to where Haylen stood below.

Haylen looked up at the swirling staircase and felt a fleeting sensation of vertigo. The brick building rose several levels high and the looping stairs appeared to spin in ever widening arcs as she craned her neck.

A ghoul decked out in full colonial splendor gazed placidly down at her from the top floor, dressed in a long, tattered red coat and wide brimmed hat. He trailed one hand along the railing as he made his way down to meet her. “You’ve been making one hell of a racket. Well, here I am. Out with it.”

Her mouth fell open. “You’re…. _John from Diamond City_?” Her voice sounded very small.

“In the flesh. Well, what’s left of it.”

She inched back a little as he approached. Her back hit the front door. “You…you’re not what I’d expected.”

“Serves you right then. Don’t make assumptions.” He smugly smirked from under his tricorne and extended an open palm towards her. Haylen couldn’t bring herself to shake the ghoul’s hand. Instead, she stared at his hideous face, confounded. After a few seconds had passed, the ghoul’s brows lowered a fraction. He dropped his hand, gaze, and agreeable disposition. “Ah. Of course. Well then, step into my parlor, little fly.”

As she followed him back upstairs, a few hitmen with machine guns glared at her, and Haylen cursed herself for not taking the time to change into civilian apparel. Her scribe ensemble made her feel like a traitor, yet in her rush to find help, it had not been her concern. She swallowed and fought the nervousness she felt. This wasn’t about her.   

Ahead, blocking a doorway, an intimidating woman skulked in shadow, leveling her gaze at Haylen over a cigarette. The ghoul gestured at her with his head and she stepped aside.

He held a door open and motioned for Haylen to enter, following her in and then closing it. The menacing-looking woman remained outside. A few lamps with perforated shades threw tawny light over both of them. The room was both dirtier and cozier than on board the Prydwen. Shabby couches flanked a coffee table strewn with paraphernalia.

Haylen sat on one of the couches, hands neatly in her lap. “What I’m about to say…” she started “…it’s going to sound pretty crazy.”

The ghoul shifted restlessly, his hands now behind his back. “As of late, my life tends to go the route of the strange and unusual.”

“It’s about Paladin Danse. He said…he said if the worst should happen…I should find you.”

For a moment, he softened, his shoulders loosening. His amused smile faded. Then, he swiftly closed up once more. His eyes narrowed. “When? When did he tell you this?”

“I…He…” Haylen started twisting her fingers fretfully. She dodged his question. “You weren’t in Diamond City. People said it was likely you came here. I thought –”

“When did he tell you?” he repeated, harshly.

“He…” She deliberated lying. Rather, she took a breath and said, “Seven or eight years ago.”

Something in his eyes shifted, like a curtain dropping, shutting her out. “No. I’m done with you. Goodbye,” he said pointedly, waving his hand for her to leave.

“Wait,” Haylen said, desperate, rising to her feet. “I don’t know what happened between you two but he needs someone. He’s –”

“Lady, you ain’t listening. You show up in my old town, start screaming out my name, draw attention to yourself – yeah, don’t think I didn’t notice the getup. Think having some Brotherhood rep asking questions about me is good for business? – wind up _here_ , where you continue to make yourself conspicuous, and now, you want me doing favors?” He strode to the doorway. “Clean up your own mess. I don’t owe you, him, or any of the rest of you assholes anything.” He twisted the knobs and crackled the doors open to leave.

“Danse is a synth.”

The words had come pouring out of her mouth.

He froze, his hands still on the doorknobs. She counted her breaths. He didn’t move. “When?” he finally asked, barely audible, hands still on the handles.

“Sorry, what?”

“When?” he repeated sharply, leaving the doorway and encroaching on her. There were daggers in his eyes. “ _When_? Why do you have a problem with this question? _When was he replaced_?”

“He…No…It’s not…He wasn’t...” She swallowed, backing away from the approaching ghoul. She put her hands up in front of her. “Danse is an original. He has always been a synth.”

He stopped, taking short breaths, ebony eyes aggrieved. He promptly spun and returned to the doors, making sure they were shut, sealing himself in with her again.  He faced her, motionless and but still menacing. “Start over,” he commanded.

“I haven’t been able to reach him.” Haylen shook her head, worry about to manifest as tears. She was wringing her hands again. “I don’t know if he got there.”

“If he got _where_?” he snapped. “Where did you send him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Bravo 
> 
> Squeaky clean Haylen in dirty, dirty Goodneighbor. I meant to post this earlier but life got in the way. As one of my students would say, "I hate life. Life is the worst."
> 
> You might be asking yourself, "Jeez, General Lee. You keep picking all of this weird cover music. Can't you score this series with anything normal?" To which, I'd say, "Nope. That's the thing about an alternate universe location like Fallout -even normal things, such as songs that we all know, are going to seem a little off. I take scoring very seriously and Fallout 4 sounds very different than previous games. As you travel through the Commonwealth, the music sounds almost colonial, with string instruments and pared down keys. I've kept that in mind while selecting appropriate themes for each chapter. So, that's why."
> 
> Cheers to not being dead, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!


	3. Bravo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 3: [Brian Justin Crum - Skycraper (Acoustic Cover)](https://youtu.be/3XBaV0QIpjE/)  
> Let's take a break from something sad for something that is utterly lovely and soaring with optimism.

JOHN

Listening Post Bravo, MA

October 20th, 2277

Autumn had cut the heat and humidity of summer and replaced it with cooler breezes and a gentle sunlight that warmed the back of John’s shirt.

Standing on the helipad, his long, thin fingers traced the wording on the tail of the Vertibird, stenciled neatly in white letters. _Invictus_ , it read.

“Isn’t this outta your way?” John queried, turning to the man behind him.

“Not at all,” said Daniel Danse, leaning against the canary-yellow railing that led down from the platform. He wore gray jeans, boots, a black shirt and a cotton-lined leather bomber jacket. “Boston is a high priority location. We’re looking to send full reconnaissance teams within a few years. This is one of the locations under consideration for a base of operations.” He pointed. “Intact landing pad. Plus, communication servers that could be used to reroute messages to almost anywhere.”

“How’d you lift the ‘Bird?”

“All Paladins have basic piloting and medical training along with an assigned craft.”

He sounded so righteously self-accomplished that it put John to shame. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

John frowned. He was twenty-four and the only thing he had done with his life was accumulate a large variety of stories. And pockets full of chems.  He had opted to bring only Mentats with him, the easiest to slip unnoticed, having no way to tell what the soldier’s reaction to his chem use would be. He imagined that it wouldn’t be favorable.

“And you?” Danse asked. “How did you get here?”

John lifted one shoulder. “I have means.”

“Caps?”

“No. Uh…notes.”

“Notes?”

“One of the perks of being richer than I can handle – my signature is worth more than a crate of Quantum. I can get anywhere.”

“How?”

John shrugged again. “Caravans, metro lines, train tunnels, boats, ships, sky ways, walk ways. You’d be surprised at how many transit lines exist. Not well advertised. Too easy to monopolize trade routes, you feel me?”

“I suppose.”

He walked with Danse down a wobbly set of metal stairs leading down from the pad. “Hey, Dan,” John began, and then stopped. “Can I call you that?”

“I can accept that. Go on.” They meandered down the dirt path to the nearby bunker.

“No smoke and mirrors, okay? Don’t try and recruit me. That won’t go well.”

“I understand. That was not the intent behind my contacting you.” His cheeks burned bright red.

“Ah.” John didn’t have to guess. Their first interaction had been nothing but physical. He would be expected to perform again. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt slightly disappointed.

Years of grime had caked on the outside of the structure, but the inside of the bunker, apparently sealed for quite some time, was left clean. Danse had obviously gotten there first. Lights were operational, cords snaking their ways to a single generator. A single terminal sat powered on a desk, glowing with cyan illumination. Several bags were spread in an orderly line along one wall. In a far corner, Protectron stations stood in a row. Danse led him through a few turns and into an additional chamber.

Several levels down and a few rooms in, Danse seemed to relax, his posture loosening. He sat on the single bedframe shoved against a wall, pulled a bottle of whiskey out of a pack under the bed, and offered it to John. John took the bottle and twisted the cap off. He swallowed a few mouthfuls of harsh alcohol, still standing. He was reluctant to sit next to Danse on the bed. He handed the bottle back. Danse’s composure hadn’t fled him entirely; his back remained straight as he took a long draught from the bottle. He then placed it on top of a cabinet, took a deep breath and looked back at John. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at this type of thing.”

“I believe that.” His admittance made John smile.

Danse opened his mouth. Another breath was taken before he asked, “Can I…may I kiss you properly?”

“Well, I mean, shit man, if you’ve gotta ask for it…” John jested. Danse hesitated, brown eyes apprehensive. John followed up with “Yeah. Sure.”

Danse stood and took John’s head in one large hand. He regarded John’s face before pressing his mouth against John’s. His lips were full and soft, if dry. His stubble scratched lightly against John’s bare face. This was all so foreign and strange. But it wasn’t terrible and it was a hell of a lot better than they had managed in Virginia.

The soldier drew away from him, mouth slightly open, dark eyes half-lidded as he shrugged out of his jacket.

John swallowed a rise in his throat. His heart pounded painfully in his chest. He was nervous. Fuck. _Why_? This wasn’t their first time.

Danse pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the swells of his muscles, and tossed it aside. Two thin steel tags hung on a chain around his neck. He reached for the ties on John’s shirt. John stepped away.

“I…I’m sorry,” Danse said, flustered, dropping his hands. “I thought…”

“No. It…it’s okay.” John pulled at the laces of his arm guards, loosening them until he could slide them off. He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it off, over his head, folding it once over his arm before setting it aside. His breath shook as he let it out. Thin for his height and dressed only in wide-legged pants, combat boots strapped up the ankles and his flag looped around his middle, he felt incredibly self-conscious.

Danse stepped closer and pressed a warm palm to John’s chest. His brows furrowed. He dropped his hand and walked around John in a meticulous circle, studying him. “You’ve never been injured,” he stated.

“What?” John looked down at himself. He noted, for the first time, his lack of the standard marks of gashes and bullet holes so common among others. Smooth, pale skin covered his body, unblemished. “I guess.”

“How is that possible?”

John lifted one shoulder and tilted his head, still slightly uncomfortable. “Always had someone bigger or meaner to look out for me.”

Danse raised his hand again. He paused with it still in the air, looking John purposely in the eyes, imploring for a sign that he should continue.

Danse had been the first and only man that he had shared a sexual encounter with. Right then, John almost said as much. But he was no introvert. Rather than utilize words, he took both of Danse’s hands in his, placing them against his body, stepping closer.

Danse ran his hands up John’s sides, over his chest, down his shoulders, fingers barely brushing skin. There was a slowness to it, painstakingly considerate, as if he had picked up on John’s nerves. Danse’s own skin was stretched taut over muscle, slightly ruddy in tone and growing increasingly more inviting as fingertips kept dancing softly over John’s ribs. A scar rippled along one side of Danse’s collarbone. John leaned forward to breathe hotly over the old wound, daring to drag his lower lip across it before taking a few choice bites at the flesh of his shoulder with gentle teeth. Danse tasted faintly of salt and the subtle tang of metal.

Sliding his hands under John’s arms and up his back, Danse tipped his head up. John grazed his teeth over the other man’s throat. Danse pulled roughly at John’s hair and, abruptly, their positions were switched. He felt a tugging at his waist as Danse attempted to remove John’s flag. John’s hands fell to stop him. With Danse’s mouth sucking on his neck and under his jaw, John slipped the flag from his waist and coiled it around one hand. He broke contact with Danse’s full lips long enough to carefully place the flag next to the whiskey bottle and then was back again, initiating a few teasing attempts before allowing Danse to capture his mouth once more.

Hands on John’s hips, Danse pulled him, changing where they stood, and drove him gently backwards until the edge of the bedframe caught John in the back of his knees. He released Danse’s hungry mouth and sat. Danse towered above him for a span of a few heartbeats before sinking to his knees on the bunker floor. He pressed against John’s chest until he lay fully back.

John didn’t know what to do with his hands. He pressed them, palms inverted, against the crumbling concrete wall behind his head. His heart hammered against his ribs.

As Danse lips grazed his abdomen, breathing hot air on his stomach, John surrendered.

John led himself be guided as Danse took the lead. Their last time had been in a dark alley, with little chance of seeing each other again. The act had been clumsy and rushed, fire in all its harshness. This experience was very different.  This was careful and unhurried and generous. While their one previous time had focused on Danse, this time it was all about John’s need, and the things done both for him and to him.

In the aftermath, he lay on his stomach, their legs tangled, Danse’s weight on top of him with his arms crossed under John’s head. “Gonna…have to request a bigger bed next time,” John remarked as his chest still heaved.

“Next time?” Danse’s breath tickled against the sweat cooling on his neck.

John reached to playfully squeeze at Danse’s forearm, fingernails just denting his skin in reprimand for being cheeky. 

“When did you know?” the soldier asked, running his fingers through John’s hair. “That this is what you preferred,” he clarified.

John experienced a fleeting sense of melancholy. “Not preferred as much as… _wondered_. I had a friend. We were too close. I…misinterpreted things between us.”

He felt Danse nod. “And the friend?”

John shook his head, mind pulled to memories best forgotten. “Gone now.”

“I…I can sympathize with that.”

John took a deep breath and focused on where he was. “You?” he asked in turn.

Danse unlaced his arms and sat up, making John move. Danse settled against the bedframe. John pushed himself up, as well, resting his back against the cool concrete wall behind him. He threw his legs across Danse’s lap. Danse set one hand on John’s thigh. “Always? In the Brotherhood, there are no staunch rules condemning such conduct. I suspect the Elders don’t wish to think of it. Most of the guidelines for decorum tend to focus on rank. That and the creation of Legacy Initiates. ”

“Those words don’t mean anything to me.”

Danse explained. “A Legacy is when a child is born into the Brotherhood, one or both parents currently serving. It is how we can be assured that our lines will be unsullied by outside influence.” His brows pinched. “While not under orders to procreate in this manner, it is a preferred outcome.”

John understood – Danse was meant to be spending his free time holed up with some female half-feigning interest in his rhetoric as he did his duty for his cause, physically. But Danse was here instead, rubbing his thumb back and forth against John’s thigh.

“Why me?” John probed, watching Danse’s face.

This seemed to finally make Danse uncomfortable one; a red blush crept up his neck. “If I am to be perfectly candid…you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

“Ha!” John barked, tossing his head back. He instantly felt better. The man had no tact. It was wonderfully refreshing.

“Why _me_?” Danse asked, his turn.

Somehow, the answer made John’s mood shift right back to gloom. He laughed again, but it was only tense energy.  He smiled, edges cracking. “You...well…you looked like someone that could look out for me.” The statement hung for a moment before his poise dissolved. He scrunched his face and placed his hand over his eyes. “Shit…I’m sorry. That’s a terrible reason. Shit. Fuck. Don’t even look at me. Goddammit.” John hefted a deep breath. “I’m just…I’m no good on my own.” He pulled his hand away and braced for judgement.

Danse was nothing but courteous, his eyes too damn sincere. His free hand moved across the span of air between them to smooth John’s hair, the other remained on his leg, squeezing. “I understand. And I will. The next three days are yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Monster
> 
> This chapter...this chapter was a beast. In some ways, this is the most important chapter in the entire series, setting up so much. Ugh. It makes my heart hurt. I tried to keep situations as honest as possible. Those transport methods are a tongue-in-cheek reference as to how you get around in DLC locations. 
> 
> Thanks for feelin' the feels with me, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!


	4. Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter four: [RAIGN - Knocking On Heavens Door](https://youtu.be/mknLaFJZ4v4/)  
> Raign, because of the 'rain' in this chapter :D

DANSE

Listening Post Bravo, MA

December 25th, 2287

Dusk must have fallen once again. It would have had to by now, although Danse had no way to verify that notion while inside of a structure with no windows. Silence was an invariable companion, a continuous reminder of his seclusion. There had been no further contact with Haylen.  The last few days had been the longest and most despairing of his life.

At some point over the last decade, the subterranean levels of the bunker had begun to collapse, compiling mounds of earth and shattered concrete into corners where living areas had once stood. Returning to Bravo had, so far, been a wise choice. While quiet and uneventful, Danse still found solace by remaining in the furthermost portion of the shelter.

He sat in an old office chair, still dressed in his uniform. Strong fingers circled his temples, trying to relieve the strain, a pressure that had been building since his flight from the Glowing Sea. Danse felt a sickening surge of defeat. Hands shaking as he buried his head in them, he fought a nauseating wave of helplessness, faint light prodding the outsides of his eyelids.

Why hadn’t Maxson simply summoned him to the Prydwen and detained him there? That was the action Danse would have taken, had their roles been reversed. Instigating a manhunt would thin their already strained numbers and divert energies away from a number of important tasks.

He wished that he hadn’t sent his new Knight away. The Knight trusted him fully and could have made all the difference in initiating a truce. Unaided, Danse stood little chance finding a solution to his quam. If he was recognized, he would be instantly killed. He couldn’t blame his Brothers for pursuing him – Danse would have done the same had he received word that one of their ranks had been identified as a synth.

God. That word again. _Synth_. Not that God played a part in this. A virtuous man, although not particularly pious, Danse felt crushed under the weight his predicament. He would have prayed for a solution if he was any less logical. This was doing of Man and, human or machine, he was caught in the middle of it. If true, he represented everything that the Brotherhood stood against and his end would be destined to mirror Culter’s. Danse wondered how many of his Brothers would have to die fighting him. He could not allow that.

Lifting his head, he brushed a hand over his laser pistol. Running his gloved fingers down the barrel, he wondered if he could do it, if he could take that drastic route. No matter what he was, his weapon could easily be used to end his existence.

Sucking air, he hastily tossed the weapon onto the desk before him, nearly striking the terminal that sat there.

The temperature seemed to drop; a chill crept through him at how close he came to making another foolish decision. Running was irrational. As was soaking up every package of RadAway he could find, prolonging his life for no reason to rectify his voyage through the Sea.

Danse stood, pushing the chair back. He paced a few steps in one direction, turned and paced back. He was hungry and tired and yet none of that mattered if he wasn’t real. His very existence gnawed at him. His fists balled and he wished to God that his Brothers had shot him and removed his say in the matter. In that terse moment, he brought a fist down to violently pound the desk.

The terminal screen woke at the jostle. A date blinked in blue-green letters. _November 11, 2282._

Danse’s tense expression dropped. He brushed his fingers over the terminal keyboard.

Here it sat. The communication conduit that had served him well for years. A remote server that he had been lucky enough to stumble on during his initial visit here. Through it, he had been able to reroute message after message to find its way to him, whenever he was stationed. But this date – he had never accessed anything dispatched on that day.

An explosion rocked the bunker, sending sediment raining down from above. Danse’s heart wanted to leap from his chest. This was it.

A second blast. A third.

The date on the terminal pulsed, beckoning.

These might be his last few moments on Earth.

He played the message.

_“God, Dan, I….I fucked it all.”_

It was John’s voice from a lifetime ago _._ Danse laced his fingers over the back of his head and bit into his lip, feeling as if all the air had been sucked from the room. The elevator dinged and he knew that his Brothers would be upon him shortly.

 _“Everything fell apart. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I couldn’t even see it. Right in goddamned front of me…”_ There was a shaky breath. _“I’m sorry. Can we go back? Can it all just go back? Fuck. I shot it all to hell. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I’m doing. I hate this. I hate everything that I’ve become. I don’t even recognize me. I never wanted this. Not any of it.”_ There was a pause. _“I don’t know what to do. Everything is gone. Everything I’ve worked for…my family…my city…you. And it’s all because of me. Shit. Shit. I’m sorry.”_

The message ended.

“This your first time hearing it?” someone asked, behind him.

Danse’s hands fell and he swung to face the voice. He stopped and stared.

John Hancock, as he was now known, stood in the gapping maw of the hole in the wall, a slight figure bathed in florescent light giving his sallow skin a greenish tint. Danse had managed not to think of him since he had left Sanctuary to fulfill Brotherhood responsibilities with his new Knight. 

John stepped forward, only an arm’s length away now. “Dan…”

He hated hearing his own name coming from the ghoul. His gravelly voice made it sound dirty, mocking in his throaty tone. This was not _his_ John. Danse almost said something unforgivable. It rose in his throat, wanting to come out. His heart thudded heavily. Several emotions filtered through him all at once – rage, despair, utter loneliness – and his body shook. He gasped an unsteady breath.

This crude facsimile was as close as Danse would ever get to his John again. And, in that moment, there was no one else that he wanted to see more. Something inside of him shattered, not being able to withstand the shift in his reality any longer.

He reached for John, snagging the ghoul around the arms and waist. He dropped heavily to his knees, dragging John down roughly with him. John froze stiffly, arms pinned at his sides as Danse began to sob, his warm tears saturating the ghoul’s ruffled shirt. There was no elegance to it – he gulped and blubbered, voice hitched in grand cries as his body shuddered. Gradually, John shifted, placing his cheek atop Danse’s hooded head. They may have stayed like that for hours or merely minutes, it was impossible to tell.

When it was over, John remained tolerant while he struggled to regain his composure, gasping air and forcing his eyes to remain open. Danse released him, sinking back with his legs folded under him. Still sucking shaky breaths, Danse said, “The…message on the terminal. I…never thought to check it. After what happened, I…I didn’t expect to hear from you.” He cupped his forehead in his hands and dipped his head. “I’m a monster.”

John’s face fell into his line of sight, blinking at him with eyes like polished onyx. His brows creased on his withered face. “Aren’t we all?”

Danse’s throat still felt tight. Incredulous, he shook his head at John. “Why can’t you hate me? You have every reason. What I’ve done to you, put you through, made you become,” he heaved, “and it may have all been for nothing. For no reason. Only to preserve lies. You have to hate me.”

John lifted one shoulder, a sad, half-formed smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Not my style.” John sat beside him, wrapping his arms around one knee. “An anxious lady in goggles sought me out. Imagine my surprise when she sent me _here_. Dan…The hell? Why didn’t you ever tell me?” he asked, softly.

“I didn’t know. I’m not even sure if I believe it. And now, I’ve just made things worse. Everything is different, and _wrong_. I don’t know what to do. I…I’m afraid.”

“And you came here.”

“I…It felt safe.”

“Well, Christmas fucking miracle that no one has found you yet. Look,” John began, voice taking on a somber tone. “I know a thing or two about having one bad day change everything. Not gonna lie and say that it doesn’t matter or that things will be easy, but they do get better.” He stood and extended a hand. “Honest.”

Danse remained on the floor.

John cocked his head and raised a brow.

He took his hand and John pulled him up. They stood, still, hands grasped. “C’mon. Can’t stay here,” John warned.

He felt so confused and overwhelmed that it was welcomely refreshing to let someone else tend to him. He allowed John to lead him back through the hole in the wall, into the elevator, and up to the surface, never letting go of him. The weight of words unsaid for years pressed down, heavy thought bubbles filling the room. None were necessary. This wasn’t the time.

It was raining outside; Danse could see the downpour through empty window frames. The black of night was a backdrop for falling beads of water illuminated silver by the white floodlights outside.

They stood too close in the frame of the doorway that led outside. Danse looked to John, apprehension stirring. John smiled, radiating reassurance.

He recalled the last conversation they had shared, back when John had worn a human face. How Danse had responded to the last words that John had said…it sickened him.

Danse took a deep breath, opening his mouth –

A resounding, metallic _bam_ cut through the tempo of rainfall. A thin shaft of red light knocked John from his side. On instinct, Danse threw himself out of the doorway and out of the line of fire. He pressed his back to the wall and crouched, heart pounding.

“Your armor was retrieved,” a voice called. “Had one hell of an audio recording between you and Haylen on it.”

Rhys.

Rhys had found him.

Rhys had shot John.

“No one else thought to step inside of it,” Rhys continued. “I did. When I get back to the Prydwen, I’ll take both your rank and your armor. Maybe even your ‘Bird, too.”

Danse stared at his palm. Rhys had taken John from him while he had been holding his hand. He gave a frantic glance in John’s direction. The impact had knocked the ghoul out of the light and he couldn’t see where he had landed. Danse’s breaths came fast and harsh.

“Rhys, hold your fire,” Danse called over the roar of the rain. “I’m coming out.” He raised his hands and went to stand in the doorway.

Rhys stood in the rain, alone, laser rifle raised. The falling raindrops struck the Knight’s form and created a halo effect where the droplets exploded into a fine, reflective mist that framed his upper body.

Danse stepped out of the relative safety of the bunker and out into the deluge, his hands still up. His uniform was soaked through in moments. “Knight, listen to me. A grievous error had been committed. I will return to the Prydwen with you so that we can reconcile this matter.”

“Christ – do you hear yourself? You even talk like a robot.”

Rhys’ slur had struck a nerve and Danse’s conviction began to waver **.** The freezing rain ate through his uniform and chilled him to the bone.                                                                                                                                                                             

“And here you are, hiding out with a ghoul. No one knows a damn thing about you, do they? They will.” Rhys smiled menacingly, his eyes hard, water running down over face. “I’ll carve the words _dirty synth_ into your body…before or after I kill you. I’ll display your goddamned corpse so everyone knows what you are. Then, I’ll decide what to do with your freak buddy.” Thunder rolled, as if to drive Rhys’ point home.

Danse’s life no longer mattered. But John…John was faced with three options. If he was exceptionally lucky, Rhys would fire the next shot directly into his head. If he was less fortunate, Rhys would simply return to the Prydwen once his obligation with Danse was fulfilled, leaving John to die in his own time. The most likely outcome would result in Rhys claiming John’s body for science. Neriah had been quite vocal in wanting a ghoul specimen for her experiments and John would fit the bill perfectly. Being touted as a hero in the name of scientific progress would certainly earn Rhys additional merits, something that he would never shy away from.  

Danse stood before Rhys, rain pelting the both of them. **“** You’re a petty, insignificant Knight, Rhys. And if you think you can best me, you are sorely mistaken. That _freak_ is a better man than you could ever be.”

Incited to rage, Rhys whipped the barrel of his weapon at Danse’s face, striking his former superior across the cheekbone.

Danse refused to stagger.

He swung back, knocking the laser from Rhys’ hand. He threw his body into the smaller Knight, squarely into his solar plexus, raising Rhys momentarily up and off the ground. Rhys gripped Danse’s shoulders, struggling to bring his knee into Danse’s diaphragm. The two orange-clad men fought, scrambling together in the mud, sliding and slipping. Although similarly trained, Rhys was no physical match for Danse. He grabbed Rhys by the wrists, forcing his arms down and kicked at him, sweeping the Knight’s legs out from under him. Rhys fell hard, the force pulling Danse down on top of him. Struggling and twisting beneath him, Rhys turned over, fingers curling into the wet earth as he tried to free himself. Danse pinned him facedown to the ground, one thick arm against the base of his neck, holding Rhys’ head down. Keeping Rhys restrained, Danse slid an arm around to the underside of his throat and curled both arms in, putting pressure on Rhys’ arteries. The struggle was brief. In seconds, the Knight sagged in his arms.

“Apologies, Brother,” Danse said with sincerity as he released Rhys’ unconscious form to flop into the mud. Danse stood, panting. The rain continued to hammer him.

This must be what damnation felt like. If there was a place worse than this wet hell, he couldn’t imagine it.

Rhys would not be out long and there was no way to know if an additional patrol was on the way. Danse strode back into the bunker, into the recesses of the front room. He had to retrieve John, even without knowing what he would do. He had no medical supplies with him.

Danse found him behind a desk, cast entirely in shadow. He checked the burnt hole high on the chest of John’s coat and thanked the Almighty for the Knight insisting on adding an energy-resistant weave into the regular clothing of all of Sanctuary’s inhabitants. But a different injury cornered Danse. John had been propelled backwards by the shot that felled him, hitting his head hard enough for blood to well and flow and to not respond to Danse shaking him. Without his hat, John looked like any other ghoul. Danse couldn’t stand it. He retrieved the tricorne and tugged it back onto John’s crown, knowing that it would soon be saturated with concentrated ghoul blood.

He gathered John’s body in his arms. The ghoul’s limbs seemed to unravel as Danse stood; his arms and legs hung long and loose, head lolling back. He weighed nothing, just bones and decimated skin. He held John tightly to his chest, stealing a moment before setting out in the storm.

There was only one safe place for those who found themselves lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Itch
> 
> Wow. This one was super long for me. I had to bring Rhys in. I had to! He's such a dick. Also, I couldn't get away from it being December 25th, so....I guess this is a Christmas story??
> 
> Thanks, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!


	5. Itch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 5: [Do You Really Want To Hurt Me (Denmark + Winter Re:Imagined)](https://youtu.be/pVh6QfX1XC4/)  
> A nice representation of the hopelessness of old Goodneighbor and falling down the rabbit hole.

JOHN

Goodneighbor, MA

December 3rd, 2277

“Well, well. Looks like the pretty boy just couldn’t keep away.”

A smug smile slid onto John’s face as he raised his arms. “See, Finn – you already know me so well.” The burly gateguard patted him down.

Although this was only his second visit, John knew the drill. Normally one to shun the way armor slowed him down, John was strapped into heavy leather layers – not for the protection, but for the increased carrying capacity it granted him. His pockets were full to bursting, not with chems but with caps. Only a fool brought chems _into_ Goodneighbor. Only an even bigger fool used a method other than caps to pay for them. He would empty his pockets here before returning home loaded in more ways than one.

“Still got the knife?” Finn asked.

“You really gotta ask that?” John answered, handing his revolver over for reclamation. He had forgotten where he had acquired the gun. Could have been any number of places; the Commonwealth was dripping with firearms. John’s weapon joined many others secured to a rack by the front gate with plastic ties.

Finn extended his open palm. “Hundred and fifty.”

“It’s gone up,” John noted, fishing in one of his breast pockets.

“Times are tough. Can’t let the atmosphere suffer. M’I right?” He gladly took John’s caps, an entry fee that granted access to every type of vice there was, all contained within a few blocks.

“That’s what I come for,” John said, as glass shattered in the street, the tickling sounds echoing off of brick buildings.

Finn laughed. “Enjoy yourself. Try not to die in our gutters.”

“Don’t intend to.” The singular reason that knives were allowed in Goodneighbor while guns weren’t was for basic self-defense and squabble settling among the drifters. Being allowed to carry your gun openly was a right reserved solely for those closely associated with some guy named Vic, the boss that ran this town. A drifter with a gun could challenge the authority of Vic, a challenge that was unlikely to end positively but would create cracks in command, nonetheless. Entry fees would go up and shakedowns would increase. Vendors and operators were less likely to be robbed at knifepoint, while a gun could put an end to commerce. The status quo was the best option for Goodneighbor. As bad as it was, it beat scouring the Wastes, chancing raiders, ferals or, worst of all, mutants, every time that you wanted a fix.

Perpetual twilight cloaked the town. A wealth of filthy mattresses lined the streets on one side, a collection of whores of both genders were spread along the other, taunting each other and shouting at prospective customers. Trash filled the street, ankle-deep at places. A raider, decked in the full protection of power armor, seemed to be the smartest person in town. 

A rowdy bunch of Vic’s cronies hung, plastered, out of the windows of the Old State House, bottles barely clutched in their hands, a clear indicator of where the sound of clashing glass had come from earlier. Most of them were brandishing guns at each other amid drunken dialogue. A few half-drunk or half-high trigger-happy patrolmen wandered the stalls and businesses getting their hands into the foodstuffs for sale and feeling up the whores, who giggled and squealed without sincerity.

Gaze down, hands at his sides, John strode across the grounds, trying not to make undue eye contact with anyone in a foul mood. A few gunshots echoed a street away. Someone obviously had less sense than John. It was hard to find who he was looking for while keeping his head down. He peered at faces as he stepped over the dirty mattress filled with drifters in various states of intoxication or chem-induced lethargy. Some chems  were undoubtedly dangerous to take on the streets, their effects leaving the taker helpless while they rode out their trip. John liked risk and adrenaline, not stupidity.

Something threw itself from a side alley, tackling him, clinging to his back. He tottered, almost falling, and reached for his knife, thankful that Goodneighbor rules had allowed for at least this bit of self-preservation.

“Boy oh boy, Johnny! You want it, I got it! Nobody’s got what I do! Meetcha in the District for a deal?”

“Oh, fuck, Cricket.”  He undid her arms from around his neck. She slid to the ground.

Although arms paid her bills regularly, the gaunt tweeker had her finger on the pulse of the chem trade. She’d say that any idiot could sell an inhaler of Jet – or a reasonable knockoff – but let them try and get their hands on the rarer junk from the west coast. She could and had proven herself to deliver. Cricket had been the second person that John had sought out after arriving in the Commonwealth, after his brother.

“C’mon, c’mon! I know you’re good for it. Got my stash of arms packed outside. No way I’m bringin’ the good stuff in here. Can you imagine? Well, I can. Walls’d be painted up past your ears in blood and bits.”

“Not what I’m here for. Dig?”

The scrawny woman grinned, eyes wide and vibrant from within reddened circles. “Oh, yeah. I gotcha.”  She grabbed his head in her hands, bringing him so close that he could smell the Jet on her breath. Her eyes darted feverishly as she searched his. “I can bring ya up, bring ya down, take ya places you’ve never been. Whatcha itchin’ for? Old favorite? New trip?”

He pulled away from her. “Show me what you got?”

“Right-o, right-o!” She took him by the wrist and swung from the alley, into the narrow street, nearly colliding with a local thug. He raised his gun as she barked “Hey, I’m walkin’ here!” Without missing a beat, she pulled John along as she walked, stating “Rexford.” Miraculously, they passed by without an assault.

John took a few left turns to get to the main drag, Cricket weaving around behind him to slip her hands between his armor and into the pockets of his pants. He kept walking, clasping his hands over hers, preventing her from pulling anything out or her fingers from traveling where he had no desire for them to go. “Awwww,” she complained, her chest against his back. He could hear a woman screaming though the open window of a warehouse. John didn’t have to wonder at Cricket’s sudden affection. Pressed in tight to another man, the town’s goons were more likely to leave her alone.

She withdrew her hands as they entered the hotel. Rexford remained a safe location for those who could pay. An agreement with Marowski kept trouble out of the building.

“Two?” the woman at reception asked.

“Nope. My guest,” Cricket answered, already leading the way up upstairs. She strolled the hall, scratching at her neck until stopping at a door, looking both ways before she unlocked it. Opening the door, she jerked her head at the room. “In. Quick.” John slithered in after her. Cricket relocked the door from the inside, sliding a chair under the knob for good measure. “There. Alright. Now, to business.”

John unbuckled his armor, leaving it in a heap on the floor, as she scampered about. She had obviously been here a while, entertaining various customers. Empty chem packaging and food wrappers were strewn over every surface and in piles in the corners.

Cricket located a tire iron, jamming the narrow end between two floorboards, wiggling it. “Whatchu looking for? Got a bead on somethin’ crazy – chem that’ll take you into fuckin’ orbit and leave you there. I can put in an order for you. Kinda one and done, though. It’ll melt yer face after.”

“Sounds monumentally stupid. I’ll pass.”

“You’ll never know what yer missin’ then.”  One of the floorboards popped up. She peeled it back and started hauling bags of chems out of the hole. “You like the weird stuff, right? Don’t blame ya.” She looked up at him, holding a bag open for him to peer down into. “So what’ll it be?”

Reaching into the bag, he pulled a syringe filled with bright orange liquid. “This.”

“Daddy-O. Nice. So you’ll be staying.” She pulled a vial of Psycho for herself and handed it to him. “That’ll do it for you?”

“Ask me again when I come out of it,” he instructed, placing a tall stack of caps on her table.

She grinned wickedly as she closed the bag. She had lost more teeth than she currently had in her mouth.

John sat on her bed and unlaced his shirt, shrugging out of it, knowing that he would come to sweating and disoriented in a few hours. Placing the Psycho on an end table, Cricket joined him, pulled her layers up and over her head, leaving her naked in her bra from the waist up. John kicked off his boots and lay fully down, punching the pillow behind his head to fluff it. He crossed his ankles and extended his arm. “Don’t rob me. I’ll find you.” She pulled a loose shoelace from her belongings, tying it around his arm above the elbow.

“What do ya take me for?” she asked, uncapping the Daddy-O syringe, pushing the air bubble free and sliding the needle into his arm. The injection took no time. Garrett would be so disappointed in him. His new soldier would be, too, John had no doubt. He took some small solace in the fact that neither of them would ever know.

Cricket took her own hit from the Psycho and lay next to him, her thumb over the mark in the crook of her arm.  John closed his eyes as heat surged in his veins. He could feel her playing with his long blonde hair. “Don’t…molest me, either. That’s…rude.” His words were slurred and slow to form.

“See ya on the other side, Boy Scout.”

The rush took him and he left his body behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Back When
> 
> So, I decided to tackle a Vic era Goodneighbor. I was going to post this last night but I'm a high school drama teacher and was having a sold out opening night (Whoot, whoot!). 
> 
> Thanks for the great discussions, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!


	6. Back When

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter six: [Begin Again (Piano/Cello Cover) - ThePianoGuys](https://youtu.be/P94DusN4LsY/)  
> A very simple, sweet cover and a break between angsts.

DANSE

Goodneighbor, MA

December 26th, 2287

Danse hit the steal door hard, his shoulder connecting with a hardy _thud_. He threw himself at it a second time. The entry to Goodneighbor held. Its mayor had done well on reinforcing his town.

He hadn’t dared to put John down. His run through the city had been fraught with horror. Engaging in a fight with John helpless in his arms had been out of the question. It was luck and John’s clearly labeled safehouses that had gotten them this far unscathed.

Danse readjusted his hold on the ghoul and delivered a savage kick to the door. It waggled on its hinges.

The door was pulled open, allowing the lamplights of Goodneighbor to wash over him in a rectangular spread. A cluster of neighborhood watch members looked down their guns at him. A woman with severe burn scarring, her remaining hair ginger, shoved past them, reaching into Danse’s arms and trying to pull John away from him. She was yelling at Danse – he could see her mouth move – but whatever she was saying fell deafly on him. With some struggle, she forced him to release John into her care. The bubble burst and sound came flooding back to him. “– you give him irradiated blood?” she was snapping at him.

“What?” He felt dazed. “No.”

“Did you dump him in a dirty river? Anything?”

Danse’s mouth hung open.

“Fuck. You don’t know one damn thing about ghouls.”

“It…it was never part of my training.”

She carried John away. He looked frail in her arms. The watch members looked to each other and returned to patrolling, leaving Danse at the entry.

With his still damp uniform painted in ghoul blood from collar to cuff, Danse felt there was no one left on the planet that he hadn’t disappointed. He stood, disgraced, in the street. Pulling his hood off, he twisted it in his hands. Several drops of water dripped from the fabric to splash on the cobblestone street. The droplets were pink, tinged by the blood on his hands.

He wasn’t sure how long he remained there but after a time the burned woman returned, alone.

“You’ve brought one hell of a shitshow to town. My name is Fahrenheit. Follow me.”

She held the door open on an absolutely ancient looking building. He shadowed her as she led him up a flight of stairs and into a room containing several couches and tables.  

“John…” Worry crept through him. “Is he…?”

“Stay here,” she snapped. “And don’t touch things that you shouldn’t.”

She left him there, closing the doors behind her.

John’s blood had hardened on his apparel. Disgusted, he fought the collar of his uniform and pulled the zipper down. He shrugged the suit off and yanked his arms free, pulling at orange fabric until it parted with him completely, balled it and threw it vehemently to the floor. He felt drained, weary to his bones and yet agitated, with nowhere to put his aggravations.

He scanned the room, catching empty beer bottles, Jet inhalers, overflowing ashtrays and knew that he stood in the eye of John’s operating center. Suddenly inspired, he threw himself into ransacking the office, lifting stacks of papers, reaching into the backs of drawers and pulling up cushions, bare feet cautious of any stray needles. If anyone in this town stockpiled Calmex, it would be John. Midway through a search under the sink, Danse froze. It struck him that he was on his knees, in his underwear, looking for drugs in a city built on sin. He straightened and stood without breathing. He had fallen too far, too fast. He didn’t recognize himself.

He pulled a blanket from the back of a couch, wrapped it around his waist, sat heavily on a sofa – the tags around his neck swung and bounced against his chest – and felt miserable. He rubbed at his face. The blank sanctity of sleep had eluded him since his discovery and although his head didn’t ache, he felt fuzzy around the edges, unfocused and unsure. He readjusted the blanket, pulling it over his head as he lay down, ineffectively hidden. The blanket smelled like chems, smoke and John. He closed his lids, just wishing to rest his eyes.

There was a muffled thump near his feet and he pulled the blanket from his face. Fahrenheit had tossed a box stuffed with clothing onto the couch. Danse sat up and ground his knuckles into his eyes before he could see straight. As the woman looked down her nose at him, he felt the slightest stirrings of recognition. Although many years had passed, he was able to place her. “I know you,” he said. “You’re the Gunner John pulled from that burning freighter in Atlantia City.”

“And you’re one of the assholes that did nothing about it.”

Briefly, he regretted the Brotherhood’s decision. The order had been to let it burn. John, true to form, had concocted other plans…

She reached into the box and pulled out a can of purified water, as well. She flipped the can at him and he deftly caught it. His thirst surprised him.

“My intent on bringing him here tonight…” he started but faltered. Per usual, he didn’t really know what to say. He cracked the top of the water and gratefully drank.

“ _Tonight_? Friend, you’ve been in here for twenty-six hours.”

Danse choked on his water. “What?” he sputtered. “What are you talking about?”

“You were out cold. Boss said I should leave you.”

Had he been asleep since arriving? Danse was more than astounded. “You’re boss, he –”

“Took a hell of a hit. Luckily, ghouls bounce back fast.” She brought a knee up to nudge the box. “Get dressed. And shower. This is a civilized city. You smell like sweat and old blood.”

Soon, Danse found himself clean and dressed like a drifter in worn shoes, ripped jeans, a threadbare white tee and a brown plaid shirt, unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled up. There were a few boxes of Fancy Lad Snack Cakes in the carton as well, which he made short work of.

He held a serving tray up by his face. In the reflection, was able to inspect a bruise on his cheek from where Rhys had punched him. Robots couldn’t bruise. Danse did not know what to think anymore. He tossed the tray down and freely wandered the building. This cesspool was currently his residence. At least, as long as John would permit it. He would have left Goodneighbor to pursue answers if he had any idea of how to get them. Even if he managed to contact Haylen, there would be a limited amount of information that she could give him.

Inaction had never sat well with him and he took to wandering the State House to fill time. It appeared as if John’s job was highly clerical. During a swift exploration, Danse found that every filing cabinet in the State House was jam-packed full of articles, essays, drafts and contracts. He pulled a folder from the very back of one drawer. It was titled, _A Strategic Analysis of Southwest Statistics in Context to Both Militia and Contemporary Exchange._ The paper was credited to a _J. McDonough_ from Liberty Isle, New York. The date on it read _June 3, 2274_. Danse pulled a second folder from the top drawer of a cabinet nearest to the door. This one was recent and ascribed to a _J. Hancock_. The scrawling font was identical. He put both files back.

All those years, he had no idea what John was doing with his life. But then again, that was the agreement they had made, back when John had been stable and Danse had been happy.

From a level below, he could hear John now, back in the office that Danse had left. John’s voice had always carried a certain rasp. Now it had been wrapped in barbed wire and raked over gravel.

It sounded as if he was dealing with a trading dispute. A man was now shouting at John. “You write regulations that no one understands just so you can move our money around as you see fit!”

John’s response sounded tired and aggravated. “Your damn ignorance is not my responsibility. I write regulations so that all trade is distributed equally in Goodneighbor. You gotta pay for representation. There’s a long list of merchants waiting to take your place in the stalls if you’ve got more problems than you do common sense.”

“I am recognized for my services! My clients look to me to provide their goods!”

“Your clients look to you for cheap imports. What would they say if they knew slaving is what keeps your costs down? That fee exists whether you’re here or the next guy is. Think it over. The door out is the same one you used to come in.”

A burly degenerate banged a door open. The trader snapped a few snarky insults at a watchman before following the stairway down and leaving out the front door.

Danse took the stairs back up and entered the office through the still open door.

John was sagging back onto his couch, lighting a cigarette. The formidable redhead stood beside him.

“You’re alright,” Danse said with an amount of relief that stunned him. He debated on whether or not to close the door, opting to leave it open.

“I’m high on Med-X. _Everything_ is alright.” John blew smoke and tilted his hat, washed free of blood, revealing a white bandage that wrapped around his head. He let the hat drop back into place. 

Danse looked over his shoulder, out into the foyer. “You employ slavers?”

“Slavers that don’t understand representational taxation, apparently.”

He looked back at John, putting on airs in his ridiculous getup, hiding, acting the part of someone else. “I…may have located your files. You, well…you write better than you speak.”

“Thanks ever so.”

Now that John was safe, there was the matter of Danse’s own life. “If you have a moment, there’s something I’d like to –”

“Boss,” Fahrenheit cut in. “Those shipments at the docks aren’t going to sign for themselves. Envoy is downstairs.”

John held Danse’s gaze, his mouth a tight line. “Hold that thought.” Gesturing to her, he said “Fahr, bring ‘em up.”  

John held additional courts as the day progressed, feet up on a coffee table, occasionally scratching at his head under his hat, Fahrenheit silent and deadly an arm’s length away. He went through five canisters of chems – Danse counted as he tried to remain inconspicuous in a corner, thumbing through an issue of _Gun & Bullets_ that he had read a hundred times over, dreading the unavoidable discussion about his life that was sure to come.

Fahrenheit did more than guard. As the evening grew late, she literally pulled John away from his writing, dragging his chair back with two hands. “You’re done for the night, boss.” She shoved a bowl of noodles into his hands. Danse’s own stomach rumbled as the smell of broth wafted. “You gonna head out for a midnight run?” Fahrenheit asked. “Clear your head? Pick up something sweet, young and stupid?” Her suggestion made Danse upset, although he had no right to be.

John shook his head, staring into his noodles. “No. No midnight runs.”

Fahrenheit leveled a glance at Danse. He wasn’t as forgotten about as he would have liked. “Then I’m off the clock,” she stated. “Try and stay out of trouble.”

“You know me,” John quipped, his chopsticks swirling his soup.

“That’s why I say it.” She closed the door after herself.

Danse became increasing aware that they were finally alone together again. His palms were sweating.

John slurped a mouthful of noodles and, amidst chewing, waved his chopsticks at Danse.  “She knows you’re on the run from the Brotherhood,” he mumbled around his noodles, mouth full. He swallowed. “I told her.”

“You –” Danse broke off, feeling a sudden gust of betrayal sail over him. “Why would you –”

John pushed his noodles away after the one bite. He swung his chair around to face Danse and leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees. He looked at Danse with genuine concern. “I’m sorry for you. Really, Dan. _I am_. But I’m not sorry that you aren’t with them anymore.”  He smiled, a little sad, a little proud. “There could be a place for you here. Give my city a chance. It might surprise you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: A Ghoul Walks into a Bar
> 
> Behind the scenes: What you're actually seeing is the third or fourth version of each chapter. First, I write the entire season out in script form, then I go back in and give it details, writing the action into paragraphs. Once that part is done, I send each chapter to my beta, take her notes, and make changes where they are needed, even sending the chapter back for a second review before posting. Hope you're all enjoying this story!
> 
> Thanks, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!


	7. A Ghoul Walks into a Bar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the song that Magnolia is singing in this chapter: [Black Hole Sun - (Postmodern Jukebox)](https://youtu.be/R6RD6mjiIZE/)  
> C'mon, it's jazzy Soundgarden!

JOHN

Goodneighbor, MA

December 27th, 2287

Of all the scenarios that he had concocted to place himself and Danse in the same location at the same time, this was not one of them. Danse, on the lam from his faction, was not here willingly and as they walked side by side through the narrow streets of Goodneighbor, Danse was frowning at his feet.

He didn’t exactly tower over John, not like he had while wearing his armor. Danse was still six-foot two and well over two-hundred pounds, the same as when John had first met him. But although John still stood at five-foot nine, his ghoul body had dropped forty pounds, leaving him rail thin and especially gaunt-looking in comparison.  

Following his brief ailment in Sanctuary, he had immediately retreated back to Goodneighbor, sparing himself further scorn and embarrassment. So far, Curie’s warning had neglected to manifest in any particular way, and John had noted no further changes in himself. He had taken Nick’s concern to heart as well, and had tried to cut back on the chems. Tried, yet failed.

“Thanks for not leaving me in that bunker,” said John, fishing for a conversation starter.

The corners of Danse’s mouth turned down even further. “Is this safe? Me being seen?” he asked, pointedly ignoring the bait in John’s previous statement.

Although it was a hell of a gamble to say it, John admitted, “I’ve been ready to be seen with you for a long time.”

Danse didn’t look any happier. “You aren’t you anymore.”

John had prepared himself. This time, Danse’s barb didn’t hurt.

As they both stepped down into the familiar din of The Third Rail, John was home. At his appearance, several drifters and merchants alike raised their glasses and gave a brief cheer. He waved one hand through the air in response. “Hey, Chuck,” he raised his voice. “Two bowls of your best goddamned slop.”

“Right to, mate.”

As they seated themselves at the counter, John almost snickered aloud at how uncomfortable Danse looked, sizing up every individual in The Third Rail. John leaned closer. “Nobody cares about your problems. Believe me; they’ve all got their own. No one is looking at you.”

“Yes, they are. I’m with you.”

Almost on cue, Irma materialized between them, giving them both a warm smile. “Mr. Mayor.”

“Irma.”

She waited for an introduction. Damn her.

“Um, Dan,” John replied offhand. “I mean, Danse.”

She took Danse’s hand in both of hers. “Nice to finally put a name to the face.”

Danse’s thick brows lowered. John made a face and a mental note to get his Memory Den deposit back. Heat rushed to his face and he would have blushed if it were possible.

As Irma departed with a swish of her bustle, Danse snarled, “What was that?”

“Nothing. Business. Was just –”

Charlie rescued him by delivering their dinners.

They both tucked in, silent. It was not the most uneasy meal they had shared, but it certainly came close. Thank God for Magnolia and her smooth crooning. Her notes cut rising tension.

Sneaking glances at Danse while he ate his stew left John perplexed. There was a wild rumor that synths did not age. To see Danse now, under his scars and weatherworn skin, he looked exactly the same as when they had met. Then again, Danse had one of those faces that blurred normal notions as to what a man in his twenties or thirties should look like; he could have been either.

A voice nagged at him, telling John that he should be more upset. The Brotherhood was likely correct, not leaping to half-cocked conclusions, in that Danse wasn’t fully human. But, so what? Whatever he was, Danse was deeply in trouble and John wasn’t about to kick someone once there were already down. If Danse had been replaced – if it had been confirmed – he would have happily blown the copy away.

There was a ruckus in the VIP room. Voices rose and glass shattered, but no shots were fired. Marowski exited with a ring of triggermen around him.

“Who is that?” Danse asked, apparently forgiving John enough to speak to him. John was startled by Danse’s sudden interest in his town, an obvious deflection of Danse’s own situation. 

“Local scum. Runs a racket in town that constantly keeps me on my toes.”

“Why not just be rid of him?”

John picked at his teeth with a fingernail. “Boy, those Brotherhood solutions sure run deep, don’t they? Not everything is that simple. Yeah, he’s a parasite, but it’s symbiotic. You dig?”

“No. I don’t _dig_.”

John stood and felt through his pockets. He deposited a pile of bottlecaps on the counter and nodded to Charlie. “His caps. Won’t skirt around that. It’s what keeps the lights on, the sign lit, and the streets clean.”

Danse rose to join him. They wove through the bar together and back out into the streets. Rain had passed through again and the in-laid bricks that made up the streets were glistening. Danse grimaced under the string lights, which made his dark hair look frosted. “Caps,” Danse repeated. “It seems that I suddenly find myself both impoverished and homeless.” His scowl was back on his face. “Nothing in my life is as I expected it would be…”

“Nothing is as _you_ expected?” John threw his arms wide, gesturing to both himself and the city around them. “Sorry, pal. You do not get ownership on that statement.”

They rounded a corner, angling back towards the State House when a female drifter bumped into John, snagging him around the waist. John tried to politely squirm out of her clutches. “C’mon, Mayor,” she pouted. “How about a quick _tour_? Or, not so quick, if you’ve got it in you.” Her hands moved from his waist downwards. John grabbed at her wrists and took a tense peek at Danse.

Danse’s eyes were stone. “I’ve seen enough,” he said flatly, before turning his back and heading to the State House alone.

John felt a fleeting remorse over the amount of women he had enjoyed while mayor, as well as the amount of men. He pushed the girl aside and took off after him. “You know where to find me,” the girl called.

Danse pulled the door open and went inside. John caught the closing door with his open palm. “Dan, wait…You can’t be angry with me.” He slid inside and trailed Danse, who was swiftly climbing the stairs. “You don’t get to have that right. _Stop_.” John made a desperate grab for Danse’s wrist. “ _This is what you wanted_!”

Danse’s voice dropped to a dangerous tone as he glared at him. “Unhand me, you monstrosity.”

Ice spread between them. John let go.

“Right,” John nodded. “Like I planned for this. My life went to shit real fast while you were off living the dream. And the things you fucking say to me. Anything, any goddamned thing at all you can do to make yourself look better, you take full advantage!” John’s voice was rising. “You ever had to sleep in the street, _Paladin_? You ever had to pick through bins so you could eat? Had to hope that one of your friends doesn’t slit your throat while you sleep just to take your shoes? You’ve had your life handed to you, never had to worry about anything. Up until four days ago, you were the one that was doing fine!”

Danse attempted to keep moving up the stairs. John charged up in front of him, blocking his path. “I ain’t done yet! Everywhere I go someone is trying to kill me because of who I am or what I do and what I fucking look like. So I need somebody else to help me not die. I’m not ashamed of that. It’s why I’m still here. It was Mal and it was Garrett and it was Fahr and it was some vault-dweller in a dirty jumpsuit and for the longest time before that, it was you!”

There was an ill pause. Danse glowered at him, eyes unchanging.

John placed his hands over his hat and spun in a frustrated circle. “Fuck, Dan. Let me in. Imagine that I exist. For once in your life, don’t be so damned stubborn.”

Danse stared at him for the breadth of a few seconds, expression closed, then turned and walked away.

As Danse sealed himself in the office, John entered his own quarters and tore his coat from his body, balling it up and flinging it fiercely into a corner. He stopped to doff his hat by the crown, tossing it onto his bed before turning to let himself fall heavily across it as well. He lay on his back, closing his eyes, looking forward to a good wallow. He wasn’t saddened, he was angry, and he mentally flipped through his chem inventory to find what would combat feeling like a tool. Mentats would only intensify his pain. Jet would just make it last longer. Something harder, something stronger. Smooch. There it was. Smooch chased with Day Tripper.

Before he could get up to retrieve either, someone stepped into his apartment; their weight settled, causing a floorboard to creak.

“I…I don’t know how to begin to compartmentalize all of this. I feel as if every decision that I have ever made is now coming into question.”

John rose up on his elbows.

“Did I really train at the Citadel?” Danse’s voice spilled queries in waves. “Have I ever even _been_ to Rivet City? Would anyone recognize me? If there was an original Danse, I think I owe it to him to find out when my… _unit_ …replaced him.” Danse looked lost and scared, mouth set in miserable lines with fists at his sides. “Can you still get anywhere you want?” he asked, raising pleading eyes to meet John’s.

John’s frustration vanished, replaced with something akin to pity. He nodded. “There’s a boat that goes from Maryland to DC in a straight shot. I’ll get you there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Synth on the Run
> 
> I hope you caught my Point Lookout reference.
> 
> Damn fam, you got me, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!


	8. Synth on the Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter eight: [Pearl Jam - Jeremy (Boyce Avenue acoustic cover)](https://youtu.be/xlhmdfl89tg/)  
> Deacon gets alt rock.

DEACON

Old North Church, MA

December 29th, 2287

A Mercer agent had found him in Sanctuary. Well, had found Preston. Deacon had made himself busy with the crops at a distance, under a wide, floppy gardening hat. Upon Preston’s relay, he had left immediately for HQ.

Waving trees branches cast sinister shadows over The Freedom Trail. Deacon hopped up a few stone steps and continued following the path. “Hey, man,” he addressed the statue of Paul Revere. “One if by land, two if by sea, how many by highly combustible Vertibird? No? Think it over. I’ll get back to you.”

Prying the door of the church open, he went inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. He lifted his sunglasses for a few seconds, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the gloomy dimness of the dilapidated building. Dropping the shades back into place, he moved deeper into the church, drawing his pipe gun, thumbing the hammer back. That small click echoed through the church eaves. Dust motes floated within the hazy column of filtered sunlight that spilled down through the gaping hole in the roof. Nothing flung itself from the darkness to kill him.

He found a single feral ghoul lurking in the winding passageway below. “Good night, sweet prince,” Deacon cited, as he ended the feral with a single shot. Holstering his weapon, he approached the farthest corner of the basement and spun the code into a dial mounted on a wall. There came the short-lived sound of grinding bricks as the entrance barrier sank back and slid to one side, revealing a pathway. The air was musty and stale, flow impeded by too many brick walls. He plodded through an additional corridor before reaching his destination.

Opening the door to Railroad HQ and bounding down the stairs to the crypt, he still found it shocking to see just how beaten out the Railroad was. Operating out Switchboard had definitely been the highest point of their entire history. Enormous and buried, it had given them a technological advantage never before achieved.  It hadn’t been meant to last however, and the number of Railroad agents alive and active had tanked after its sacking. He’d seen too many hideouts come and go and, if he were to be honest about it in the slightest, the church crypt was a sorry substitute. Luckily, his lies knew no bounds and he was able to act the part of the prideful informant of a group that was merely down on their luck for a bit, not a devastated cluster of survivors with little holding themselves together.

The Railroad still remained the least understood and least empathic group along the entire East Coast. The Commonwealth could tolerate the different groups that dotted the nation to some degree, but throw in the Railroad and even the mention of synths and people lost their minds. No matter how he looked at it, without some drastic change, Deacon had the suspicion that the Railroad was in the midst of its death throes.

Sarcastic applause broke out at his appearance. Drummer gave a wolf whistle.

“Thank you. Thank you. Yes, I know. I’d be astounded by me, as well.”

“The prodigal fucking son,” Glory scoffed, bent over her minigun, recalibrating the barrels. "You _must_ be a most rare vision.”

“C’mon, Glor. I might be an ass, but if I’m anybody, I’m Puck.” He raised a brow at her, hoping that she followed his reference. Glory’s scowl deepened.

“Deacon,” Desdemona called from the podium. “Nice of you to reappear.”

“That’s me – I show up when you least expect it.” He approached his superior. “Whatcha got for me?”

Desdemona lifted a folder from the dais at the center of the mausoleum. She held it loosely as she handed it to him. “I thought you’d want in on this.”

“Aw, thanks, Des,” he replied, taking the report with a cocky grin. “You send me to all the best places. Standard assignment – synth on the run?”

“With a twist.”

He cracked the folder open and reviewed the file, flipping pages. The picture of a familiar face was attached to the report, disapproving brows and all. Not much shocked him, he had seen too much. This did.  Deacon’s vain smile died. “You gotta be kidding me,” he muttered to himself. He raised his voice and held the folder aloft. “Yo! What the heck is this trash? Hey, Tom – remember that one time when I said you weren’t funny? You still aren’t.”

“Hey, man – ain’t my find. Details came directly from that tin blimp.” In his standard corner, Tom tapped a few keys on his terminal. “Intercepted a broadcast sent out to all local units as far as the bandwidth could throw it.”

“If you don’t want this job, I’d be happy to take it from you,” said Glory, appearing at Deacon’s elbow. “I’d love to give one of those assholes a taste of what they’ve been doling out.”

“I sent for you because I’ve personally seen M7-97 here with Fixer. I know that you’ve worked together in some capacity,” Desdemona explained, the creases around her eyes deepening with stress, “and while I don’t fault you for it, perhaps it gives you a different angle. With _Red Glare_ on the docket, I’d rather not tip our hand. If there’s a chance to go in without guns blazing, I would prefer it.”

Glory glowered at Desdemona’s assumption, no matter how accurate Deacon felt it was. Should she take it from him, this mission would bring out the sadistic steak in her that most of them strived to avoid. Although he was fairly certain that Glory wouldn’t kill Danse outright, she would definitely make him suffer. A corner of Deacon’s mouth turned down, displeased.

“Minimal casualties. Got it.” Striding across the crypt to stand beside Tom, he asked “Where am I off to?”

“Last known location…he was skirting through the Financial District.”

“Goodneighbor?”

“I’m guessin’. That’s all we got.”

Deacon’s wheels began to crank. If Danse was headed to Goodneighbor, odds were that it wasn’t for the ambiance. He would be looking for help. He’d be looking for –

Deacon was neither stupid nor blind. Danse’s natural evasiveness had recently overflowed, escalating to a hell of a scene that unfolded at Sanctuary Hill’s main entry. It might have been subtle enough to have slipped by anyone but Valentine and him, but the tin can and jerky stick had history. 

He dropped the folder on Tom’s workstation and elbowed him away from the terminal. “No no no. Don’t track _him_ ,” Deacon instructed, typing in a rapid succession of commands. “Track Hancock. He’s the one with the traceable account. Where did you go?” Deacon pulled up files, easily cracking into the mayor of Goodneighbor’s transactions. “You sly dog. He’s on the move. Where to?” Deacon brought up a series of maps. “Gotcha.” A location was clearly marked as the end destination. Deacon almost laughed. “Wow…guess nothing stays hidden forever. Looks like I’m going back to DC.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Used to Be
> 
> Where was the Railroad during this questline? Come on, guys! Sheesh. The Deacon/Glory banter is about characters from A Midsummer Night's Dream. The pressure is immense to make all of Deacon's dialogue sound brilliant :/
> 
> Everybody should trade Beta-ing with somebody on the other side of the planet - writing and sleeping can work in shifts. Thanks, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!


	9. Formerly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 9: [2CELLOS - Hurt](https://youtu.be/ozNEdMcWZvQ/)  
> Please enjoy some pain.

JOHN

Rivet City, Washington DC

December 31st, 2287

Of all the places that John had ever visited, this was definitely one of the strangest. The forced sterility of the aircraft carrier stood in stark juxtaposition against the background that the Wasteland provided. Out of service for centuries and beached along the rocky shore, Rivet City still stank of military requisition. Perhaps that was why Danse had favored the memory of it so much.

Above the stalls of the midship marketplace, John shifted nervously, his arms folded, tapping one boot.

It was early evening and the shops were closing for the night. Danse had taken them in through a side door, as to not parade through the center of the market. He had led John to a higher recreational level overlooking the bazaar. The loft created a decent vantage point from which they could watch the hustle below. Danse’s plan was to question the longer-standing vendors once they had padlocked their stores. What exactly to he was hoping to find, John still wasn’t sure. He didn’t think Danse knew, either.

Danse had taken up a position by the pool table, cue in hand, running his thumb over the tip. Every so often, as someone would pass through on their way to or from midship, he would bend as if to line up a shot, shielding his face away for anyone who might notice him. He did that now, as a woman brought up a box of items from the stalls. Danse bent and the woman got a clear look at John on the other side of him. Her neutral expression turned startled but she left without a word.

Releasing a gruff sigh, John unfolded his arms, shook his fingers, and refolded his arms once more.

Danse’s brows quirked as he straightened, looking directly at John. “What you doing?” he whispered harshly.

“Waiting for someone to start screaming _feral_ at me.” John dropped his arms and leaned on the raining, folding his wrists. His toe still tapped. Any place without ghouls around gave off the same stench of prejudice that reminded him too strongly of Diamond City. A steady stream of Jet would make him numb enough to deal with being scrutinized, but a chem-huffing ghoul would draw further attention, ruining Danse’s strategy. He should have traded his clothes for his road leathers.

Cue in hand, Danse scanned John’s face. His breathing was uneven, edgy. He kept looking away and then back again. He looked uncomfortable – even more so than usual.  

“Spit it out,” John directed.

“It…was easier.”

John fought a second sigh. “What was?”

“To not think of you. To stop making decisions for myself.” Both of Danse’s hands clutched the cue now.  “Once I joined the division aboard the Prydwen and stopped takes furloughs, I found a…a clarity of purpose that I never knew I was capable of. It made me a better soldier. It made the answers to everything…easier.”

John’s eyes narrowed. Anger stirred in his gut. “Glad it was all rainbows and puppies on your end. Wasn’t so much on mine.”

“ _Feral!_ ” someone screamed.

John sighed once more and straightened. “And there it is.” He clapped his hands, loudly. “Clockwork.”

A hatch clanged as it was thrown open below them. John could see a guard barreling out of the doorway, careening around a corner, reaching for the railing as he sprinted up the stairs, pulling his weapon as he took multiple steps at a time. Bursting onto the loft level, the guard hoisted a plasma rifle to his shoulder, green light bathing his face on one side. He paused in his rush, one eye squinting at John. “What the hell are you – a pirate?”

“Arr,” John rumbled, but humility forced him to remove his hat. It wouldn’t do for him to cause an even bigger scene. He placed one hand over his forehead, screening a wide strip of peeled flesh, and was happy he no longer had his bandages to explain. He braced for the arrival of additional security officers. A feral attack at sea had to be among the ship’s most vivid nightmares.

The guard’s gaze observed the entire garret, settling on Danse. Unexpectedly, his aesthetic features took on a stunned expression. He lowered his gun. “Dear Father below,” he breathed. “You’re here. You can’t be here. They’ll find you.”

“The Brotherhood?” asked Danse.

“The Institute.”

Danse’s posture deflated.

So much for denying it – this random watchman had just confirmed Danse as a synth.

“Who are you?” Danse asked, keeping his voice low.

“I’m Jack Harkness, head of security.” He moved closer and, with an unbroken stare, added in a quiet tone “You should come with me. Right now.”

Harkness jerked his head back to the hatch he had come from. The guard raised his voice, calling to the ship at large “False alarm. No ferals on board.” Despite him giving the all clear, he gave an additional quick scan of the area, even leaving them for a few seconds to check the stairwell.

Danse and John exchanged a glance. Danse nodded and walked up to the guard. John put his hat back in place and went to follow.

The guard rejoined them but barred their path. “Whoa, whoa.” Harkness held up one hand and turned his head to Danse. “Is this _your_ ghoul?”

John’s jaw slid to an aggravated angle and he battled to hold his tongue.

“Yes,” Danse was swift to answer. “He’s mine.” Danse held one arm out in a clear gesture that John should join them. Astonished, John took his place next to Danse, careful to keep his mouth shut.

The trio made their way down the stairs and through a few bulkheads before reaching a small room within the guard station. “Out,” Harkness barked, and the few lingering guards disappeared, leaving their still steaming coffees behind. Alone now, Harkness shut the door and faced the two of them. Without hesitation, he asked “Are they coming for you?”

John and Danse traded glances once more. “Who, specifically?” Danse was careful to ask.

“The Institute. Are they chasing you? Is that why you’re here?” Trace panic made the guard’s blue eyes look bright.

“No,” Danse answered. “To the best of my knowledge, the Institute is still ignorant of my existence.”

Harkness released a shaky breath and reached to swing a chair under him. He sat the wrong way, arms draped over the back. “My unit designation is A3-21,” he explained. “I’m a synth. I’m with the Railroad.”

Standing tall, Danse said “I’m…I am M7-97. Formerly…Paladin Danse.”

That statement must have cost Danse something dear. John felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach just hearing it.

“What happened to the real Harkness?” Danse questioned.

The guard looked at him unblinkingly. “I _am_ the real Harkness.”

“You…acted as if you recognized me.”

“Of course I did. My initial mission to Rivet City was to make sure that you existed on record. Leaving a trail of your existence on the surface – that was my job. Only after I implanted a digital history did I even start to question my role.”

“Which was what?” John piped up. This was all too convenient. Maybe Danse was overdue for some good fortune.

Harkness blew a weary exhale out of his nose. “Look, I don’t know why you’re here, but it’s not to hear my story. What went so wrong that you left your position?”

“I feel you already know too much about me,” Danse bit, glowering.

“Fair. Okay, I can play that. I was a Courser, sent up top by the Institute to do their dirty work. That extended to enabling pet projects, such as yourself. You were my very last assignment.”

Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Danse looked slightly pale. His spine was locked though, and he stood at attention. “You were a Courser?”

“I was. Is it my turn yet?”

“Proceed.”

“Why are you here?”

Danse swallowed. “My identity was uncovered by the Brotherhood. A colleague notified me and I was able to escape.”

Harkness looked confused. “ _Uncovered_?” Then, he grinned. “Well, I guess somebody’s been busy behind closed doors at the Institute. Tell me – was it my group?”

“I have no idea where Proctor Quinlan got his information. I find it highly unlikely that the Railroad bestowed any type of information to the Brotherhood.”

“I take that as a _no_. Well, then you are in a pickle. Still” – Harkness fixed Danse another stare – “Why are you _here_?”

“I need answers. I don’t know which parts of my life are fictional and which parts really happened. I know that I was here. My partner, Cutler, and I operated a shop here in Rivet City. We enrolled into the Brotherhood in 2270. But after that, I’m no longer sure.”

Harkness’ face lost some of its edge. He shook his head. “You were never here. Cutler never had a partner.”

Danse looked confused and appeared to struggle. “No, I…I have… _very specific_ memories of him.”

“No, you don’t. You only think you do. Mike Cutler never met you.”

Danse stood with his mouth open. He fought for breath. All of a sudden, he sat, dropping to the floor. His hand curled around a knee brought to his chest, the other, on the ground for balance. As he bent forward, his holotags spilled out from under his shirt, rotating slightly on their chain.

John took a step and almost went to him. Instead, he stayed where he was. This was neither his story nor his place to intercede.

Harkness continued talking, despite Danse looking ill. “You were my last mission, of course I checked up on you. When that vault-kid rejogged my memories, I still had my Institute passwords and encryption hacks available. Yes, I recognized you – I had seen diagrams of your design for years. Building the matrix for your particular unit took five scientists seven years to complete. Your face was carefully designed to fulfill physiological expectations of what a good solider should look like. Rugged, stoic, handsome – people were supposed to trust _and_ like you. Studies showed that officers with dark hair were more likely to be taken seriously.” Harkness ran a hand over his own brown hair. “Tall enough, strong enough – you were made to be the perfect specimen.”

Watching the tiled floor, Danse made no motion that he was absorbing what was being explained to him. John wondered if he’d lost his hearing to shock again, the way Danse had mentioned so long ago.

“Few in the Institute even knew about your construction. It was too risky. Word getting out on a Brotherhood sleeper – even a rumor – would have destroyed the entire plan.”

“What was I meant to do?” Danse asked, his voice sounding very small.

“What do you mean?”

“What was the purpose of my existence? Why build me at all?”

“I didn’t have that clearance. Best I can figure – whatever you’ve done since then, that’s exactly what you were meant to do. Be awesome. Fight the good fight. Excel at everything. Rise to the top.”

“What about the headaches?”

“A soldier with headaches is not really novel.”

“I…recall headaches. In recent years, though…it isn’t exactly _pain._ ”

Harkness didn’t say anything, but his eyes were still sharp.

Danse struggled to explain. “It hurts, yes. But the sound…the sensation…it’s like screaming, this constant span of white noise that rises and distorts and sounds like –”

“Static?” Harkness offered.

Danse’s eyes seemed to empty. “Yes.”

“Have you ever sustained a head injury?”

“I…I have. Several."

Motionless in his seat, Harkness blinked at Danse. “Well, congratulations.”

“The hell do you mean?” John asked, testily.

Harkness gave him a quick glance before readdressing Danse. “You’ve already been triggered. Guess the Institute failed to proof you from too many knocks in the head. Whatever sabotage you were meant to have carried out has already been activated. The signal has been disrupted, failing to execute internal commands, resulting in the static. You are no longer a threat. Like I said – congrats.”

Having curled into a miserable ball, Danse did not respond.

“I’m sorry,” Harkness said. “Maybe you’re going to get tired of hearing people say that. But you were never supposed to know to begin with.”

Danse stood and walked out of the room.

There was an awkward moment as John and Harkness regarded each other. John jerked a thumb in Danse’s direction. “I’m gonna…yeah.” John slipped from the room and swung his head, looking for Danse. He hadn’t gotten far. In the stairwell between levels, Danse had his arms wrapped through the railing of the staircase, his back to the hall he had emerged from.

John wondered if this was where he had come – where he had _thought_ that he came – when he was upset while living in Rivet City.

John slid to his side. “You doin’ okay?” he asked, honestly concerned, bracing his hand on Danse’s back. Danse made no motion to remove it.

“So…not only am I a synth, but I’m a _defective_ synth?” Danse’s face was unreadable. “I’ve…never felt so pleased to have been shot in the head. It may have saved countless lives from my inevitable betrayal.” His knuckles were white as he clutched the metal railing. “Maxson was right. Everything the Brotherhood had feared was true. I _was_ built to be a weapon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Any Other Way  
> Woo. What a departure from the original quest! C'mon Railroad! Btw: I heard Danse's voice actor doing a commercial for pie today and it was magical. 
> 
> Cheers and thanks, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!


	10. Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 10: [ThePianoGuys - A Thousand Years](https://youtu.be/QgaTQ5-XfMM/)  
> Feels and optimism.

DANSE

Rivet City, Washington DC

December 31st, 2287

Not wanting to draw additional unintended eyes during their visit, they decided to spend the night in the open air of the flight deck. John had returned to Harkness to request supplies as Danse didn’t have the heart to face the other synth again.

The sea breeze tugged at his hair as he stood at the railing, overlooking the ocean. A sliver of moon reflected on a black sea where it met blacker sky. Intermittently, the ship’s metal hull would groan in protest as it tipped imperceptibly back and forth.

It was New Year’s Eve, and any citizens that might have normally lingered up top had ventured below for both warmth and revelry. Alone on deck, a despondency that he had fought for days rose up inside of him. Cutler…their history, both professional and personal…all of it, fake.  He had expected a certain amount of discrepancies to emerge once he began prodding into his past. But this, to take Cutler away from him in this manner, it gutted him.

He had assumed that when the call had come to wage a final assault on Adams Air Force Base, he had been coming down from a year’s abstinence spent in mourning for his partner. He recalled so clearly wanting to be left alone during that time, to focus on his job without the added pressure of social scenarios. The pain of losing the man he’d known since he was twelve had been too fresh. He remembered Cutler’s laugh, how he liked his coffee, the color of his eyes in sunlight, the first time they had lain together, what he looked like when he was asleep, the side-eye he would give Danse during roll calls, what Danse’s name had sounded like the final time that he had said it, the way he had convulsed when he died. He remembered –

His stomach churned and he hid his face in his hands. All of his memories had been poisoned.

And then, John.

Now, Danse knew that John had been the first civilian man he had ever truly seen. And he had promptly selected him for an inappropriate engagement. Was that the entire plan? That he would latch on to the first person he could outside of Brotherhood influence in order to further his tragic backstory – the awkward, queer officer that preferred to keep others at a distance? Had his Brotherhood programming conflicted with the shameful background he had been given, splitting himself into a duality of intentions – his life with John and his life at the Citadel? Is that why he had never been able to allow his two halves to overlap? It felt unduly cruel for the Institute to have built him like this.

There was a clank as John emerged from a doorway to the ship, his arms full of provisions. In his coat and hat, kicking the door closed, he looked thin as a rake and ridiculous. He was tossing down sleeping bags as Danse mutely returned to him.

After yet another apprehensive and disappointing supper of cram out of a can and dry cereal together, they turned in for the night. It was cold as they lay on their backs within their sleeping bags, arms folded over the outsides. Their breaths puffed snowy clouds of condensation into the air.

Next to him, John spoke up. “Dan…I’m sorry.”

Danse turned his face to him. “I…need further clarification.”

John was not looking at him. He had removed his hat and seemed very exposed. Tears in his skin ran from his cheek to his mouth. “I knew it was you. The moment you walked into Sanctuary, clanking and proud. I hated you for it. For being right where I left you. For staying the same. All the backhanded comments and seething remarks…I was still so angry with you. Didn’t expect it. Thought it had enough time to dissipate. But then I got it. It all made sense. That’s just who you are. The promise you made…it was never to me. It was to them. To serve and die and do everything that was asked of you. And now, I know that you didn’t even have a choice.”

Danse watched John watch the sky. “Why is this all so easy for you? Don’t you care about what I am?”

John shook his head, eyes still fixed. “I’ve never known you any other way.”

With stunning clarity, Danse realized that, with the exception of the first week of his life as a synth, he had always known John. He had come for him at Bravo, just as Haylen had known that he would, even though the thought of John being his savior had never entered his mind. John had always cared for him, even after Danse had abandoned him. He had never given up.

A rise of voices made the carrier vibrate beneath his back. A few gunshots went off in Anacostia. It must be midnight, the citizens of Rivet City all caught in celebration. A new year, full of chances. And the opportunities to make the same mistakes all over again.

He took John’s hand. Danse couldn’t look at the wreckage of his face. He turned his head away, covering his face with the opposite palm. Something like shame spiraled out of his stomach, threatened to fill his chest.

John squeezed his fingers.

Overwhelmed, Danse pulled his hand from of his grasp.

When he eventually removed the hand from his eyes and looked back at John, the ghoul’s back was to him, the fabric wall of his sleeping bag being used as a partition. John’s voice sounded thick as he asked, “Think…maybe we could pretend? Like everything was fine again? That none of this really happened?”

“No,” Danse answered, his chest feeling hollow. “I’ve had enough deception in my life.”

John did not speak again.

He cursed his unending verbal attacks. Danse was not only useless as a solider but terrible person as well. No matter what he intended, he managed to hurt those who cared for him. Having stuck with him, John deserved better than the treatment Danse had been delivering.

Danse turned onto his side and reached around to place a palm flat against John’s chest. He dragged John, bag and all, nearer until they lay chest to back, the closest to an apology as Danse could manage. John’s breathing was jagged, eventually dissolving into slow, deep exhalations, his high-temperature ghoul body exuding a pleasant amount of heat in Danse’s embrace.

“Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year, Dan.”

Resting his forehead against John’s collar, he slept more peacefully than he had in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Everything is Perfect
> 
> I'm really enjoying writing this. Please let me know what you think - I'm always editing. 
> 
> Stay awesome, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!


	11. Everything is Perfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 11: [All Through The Night - Sleeping At Last](https://youtu.be/Tf4arzZXEiA/)  
> A nice song/artist combo for a chapter about insomnia.

DANSE

Arbor View, VT

February 26th, 2278

John had been missing for nine hours. Nine hours and thirteen minutes, to be exact.

It was both cold and snowing, and Danse felt equal parts panic and fury. He hoped that John was safe so that he could strangle him when he returned.

Outside of the diner where they had made their camp, Danse paced deep furrows into the drifts. He wore a heavy winter coat that trailed past his knees and sleek, black gloves. His faction’s insignia was stamped on the back of his jacket, russet on black. Although his breath was visible, he was warm enough in his clothing.

He had risen late, most of his night having been a waste, sleep-wise. He had only been able to grab a few hours in the early morning. John had already been gone when Danse had awoken.

Danse had planned to concoct a strict set of rules, a code of conduct for them to abide by. He hadn’t. John existed as the singularly loose feature in Danse’s overly organized life, a small snippet of freedom. Having a segment of his own life outside of the confines of the Brotherhood had been both a jarring and treasured experience. He had bent regulations as far as he could to a point that allotted their meetings and had checked and checked again to ensure that no rules were being broken. Existing in a grey area was new territory.

He enjoyed his job, there was no doubt. He loved the finesse, the experience, the constant opportunity to better his own physical capabilities. No motion was wasted, every move deliberate. But stepping away had provided him with opportunity to release tension, regroup and return with an intensified focus. 

John’s personality stood in stark contrast to anyone that Danse knew, doing whatever he felt like with little regard to conformity. There was nothing that Danse could suggest that he would turn down. He was adventurous and daring in a way that had nothing to do with combat, giving as much as he took. While John challenged him, it never took an offensive turn, and Danse felt free to push the limits of his comfort zone.    

He savored the fact that he and John would reunite at different locations, with no chance of running into anyone that would recognize either of them. Occurring every few months during Danse’s furlough breaks, such meetings had been devised through a method of message-transfers through the Bravo servers, using codes for dates and locations. This visit was their third and would be their last if John did not return.

When John finally appeared, crunching through snowfall, he had his scarf pulled up to his hazel eyes that looked very blue against the white snow and twilight sky. A cap with ear flaps covered his head and several layers of jackets made him look heavier than he was. He had a parcel tucked under one arm. Tugging the scarf down with mittened fingers, he asked “Fire going?”

Danse didn’t strangle him. But his shoulders squared and expression darkened. “Damn you, John. Where the hell did you go?”

“Had to see a man about an item.” He waved the bundle. “Not much caravan traffic this time of year.”

“What was so important that you had to leave me here with no notice?”

“Can we take this inside?” John rubbed one arm, clearly cold, breath puffing white clouds. “I picked up a present.”

They ducked inside. It was warmer within the diner and they shrugged off their extra layers. John placed the package on a booth table. Danse was sure to reset the tripwire at the door. “It was foolish and discourteous for you to venture off on your own,” he scolded, prodding the fire barrel back to life.

John unwound the scarf from his neck. “Hey, you’re the one that keeps contacting me. Don’t presume to own me. I’m not the one supposed to be spending their free time making racist babies.”

Successfully put in his place, Danse closed his mouth and sat down in a booth, his black tee tight over his chest. He pulled off his gloves and traced the metal runner around the lip of the table with his thumbs. “I apologize…I so rarely connect with anyone. I’m afraid I don’t know the appropriate steps.”

He was forever grasping at the wrong words. And the wrong actions. He had nearly struck John in his sleep the previous night while thrashing in a nightmare. Attempting to sleep beside someone else had become a chore. Even on his best nights his slumber was restless.

John’s lips turned up on one side as he removed his ushanka and fluffed his long hair. The hat had rubbed his strands almost straight. “Well, much as I adore you going for me in the middle of the night, slugger, I’ve had enough.” He pulled the strings on the package and unrolled the parcel. A collection of small syringes topped with needles were tucked inside.

Danse glanced back up at John, incredulous. “You left to buy drugs.”

“I left to buy _you_ drugs.”

Danse’s gaze bounced between John and the syringes and then back to John again. “You can’t be serious.”

John slid into the booth seat opposite of him, with the chemroll on the table between them. “Dan, I get it. You’re not the first fighter to have trouble turning off the picture show.” John pressed a finger against his temple when he said that. “It’s not a big deal. Take the help.”

Danse slung one arm over the back of his booth. He rubbed the fingertips on his other hand together. “What is it?”

“Calmex. Rare as fuck, which is why it took me three vendors to find it. Cost more than a Deathclaw omelet – which are, in fact, delicious – but the option of you accidentally socking me in the face every night made it an easy choice.”

He felt immediately guilty about not having proper control over his actions. It was not John’s place to fix his problems. “You shouldn’t have spent an exorbitant amount on me.”

John pulled a single hypodermic from the bag. “Wasn’t anything I couldn’t afford. My family is from Liberty Isle. I have the means.”

Danse tilted his head. “Liberty Isle? You lived in the Statue of Liberty? The Statue of Liberty was your _shack by the water_? This isn’t what you told me before.”

“Nnnyeeah,” John mumbled as he rolled his eyes while prying the cap off of a unit of Calmex with his teeth. He spit the cap off to one side. He waved the needle around as he talked, Danse darting away from the point. “I can’t exactly go around telling people that. It’d put a price on my head. And on my signature.”

His signature. Danse had forgotten. Only the truly affluent had access to notes and codes in addition to caps. Danse had also made it a point to ignore the marks in John’s arms and the scent of chems that tended to linger around him whenever he reemerged from a brief moment to himself. No wonder he was able to afford such an abundance of substances. This seemed a trivial matter to dwell on, however, given how little time they spent together.

“I can’t take you up on this offer.”

“Really?” John smirked. “You of those cyborg officers I heard about on the road? Pretty sure insanity is the next step you keep flailing ‘stead of sleeping.”

His spine stiffened. “Where did you hear that? What rumors have you been spreading?” Confounded Cross and her connection to sources outside of the Brotherhood. This was how cracks were formed in command – information leaking out for drifters to take with them as they traversed the Wastes.

“What? You mean that shit’s real? Hell…I was only joshin’ you.”

“Well, don’t. Kindly never speak of the Brotherhood in that manner again.”

John sagged in his seat, wiggling the syringe between his fingers, jaw and brows set unhappily. “Look, I’m trying to give you a gracious way out of your situation. I do know what I’m talking about. This won’t hurt you. Take your damn medicine.” 

Danse looked away. To pollute his body with chems was a ludicrous suggestion. Surely, this idea flew in the face of all types of regulations. True, there were some officers that used Buffout on occasion, and the use of Med-X was constantly being reevaluated. He looked back at John. “Over time, will it…I mean…will I…”

John shook his head, tapping air bubbles from the syringe. “It’s not something you get addicted to.” He then grinned wickedly. “Not unless you really, really learn to love naps, that is.” John held out his hand.

Danse’s fist balled on the table.

John’s hand remained extended. His smile softened. “Do you trust me?” he asked.

Danse didn’t even have to think about it. Of course he trusted John. He wouldn’t risk being with him otherwise. Danse reluctantly extended his palm, pulling his free arm down to rest on the table. He nodded and allowed John to inject him with the chem, neatly slipping the needle into one of the veins that snaked along the outside of his swollen muscles. “You know your way around this,” Danse said, not quite an accusation, both of them bent over the booth table.

John slipped the needle out. “I like life and everything that it offers. I’m not in the habit of wasting any of it.” He tossed the used syringe with little regard for littering. “I get high and everything is perfect. For a little while, anyway.”

The slightest hint of fogginess hinted at Danse’s perception. His shoulders began to unknot and loosen. This wasn’t at all the way he thought chems would feel like. He felt…content.

“Would you ever consider stopping?” Danse asked.

“What – using? No.” John shot back, “Would you ever consider leaving your faction?”

“The Brotherhood? Doesn’t be absurd. Absolutely not. They’re my family.”

John didn’t answer or look at him, patting his pockets instead. He lit a cigarette.

“You’re smoking again.”

“Yeah. I do that, too,” John grumbled around his smoke, clearly annoyed.

Danse felt tired, which surprised him. He moved himself down to their bedrolls, his back against the peeling upholstery of a red vinyl booth.

As John puffed on his cigarette, Danse found himself wondering about John’s own relationship with chems. “Should I be worried about you?”

John’s demeanor calmed. “No, don’t. Sowed my oats long ago. Became somebody else’s problem for a while. The shit I put him through…I know my limits now.”

Danse guessed that must have been the same friend that John had mentioned before. He wasn’t sure if John would ever tell him the entire story about that individual. But Danse himself was in no hurry to explain his relationship with Cutler. They were each allowed to have their own past.

Having finished his cigarette, John moved to join him on the bedrolls. He lay on his stomach, arms folded under his head as he looked up at Danse. “Dan, I ain’t gonna beat around the bush – I like you. Think that’s fairly obvious by now. But I absolutely hate what you do. So…I don’t want to know about it. I won’t bring it up and you won’t say anything.”

“Really?” Danse’s brows rose. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that idea.

“You honestly want to tell me all about your mantras and your stories and about that one time when you blew that one thing up? That how you want to spend our time?”

“Not especially,” Danse conceded. “So, what are you looking for?”

John smiled shyly and sat up. He moved closer to him, delicately tracing a thumb down the vertical scar that marred Danse’s eye from brow to cheek. “I want to run away with you. For a few days at a time. After that, maybe a few more. And while that happens, not give a damn about anything else. Can I have that much?”

Relaxed and blissful, Danse leaned forward to kiss John on bridge of his nose. “Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Every Damned Day
> 
> My notes for the chapter initially just said "Danse w/ Calmex".
> 
> Thanks for giving me all of your time [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!


	12. Every Damned Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 12: [GABRIELLA - Coldplay - The Scientist ](https://youtu.be/s5RQJDoSfxA/)  
> More sap.

DANSE

Rivet City, Washington DC

January 1st, 2288

The first rays of morning light pressed in on Danse’s eyelids. He blinked the last remnants of slumber from his eyes, the chill of morning stinging at his nose, cheeks, and ear tips.

John still slept, facing him, one hand knotted in the collar of his coat, drawing it closed underneath his chin. Danse watched him sleep, looking for any sign of _his_ John in this ghoul’s face. Only the shape of his face was similar, skin stretched tight over cheekbones and the tapered angle of his chin. He observed the gentle rise and fall of his side with each slow, even breath. A memory surfaced and he recalled how John would sleep safe in the confines of Danse’s arms. John McDonough was still alive, trapped within an abomination. Danse had the sudden urge to touch him, to feel the texture of his features slide under his fingertips. He brought his hand up and reached out before stopping himself.

John opened his tar-black eyes and the moment was over, revulsion creeping back in. Danse sat up and flipped his sleeping bad open. The air was brisk but bearable. He rolled his bag up as John rose beside him. There came the click and rattle sound of a Jet canister being shaken. Danse kept his back to John, stacking provisions, as he heard several inhalations, one after the other.

The sun grew bright, dancing off of the ocean’s surface. To the north, the blocky ruins of DC rose in the distance. The crumbling obelisk of the Washington Monument and the jutting spire atop the Capital Building appeared exactly as he remembered them. Danse wandered to the railing and peered down the side of the ship. There was a clearing between the rocky coastline and the paved road. A water rationing site had been located there after Project Purity had been activated.  He recalled handing out bottles of water to the people of DC, feeling like a hero, civilians crying and thanking him. That part was real. He had never felt prouder to have been a member of the Brotherhood of Steel. It had been far too long since his career had made him feel that way.

Bent over the railing, stomach dropping, Danse blurted “I fear I may have inadvertently done more harm than good in my life.”

John, finished with his chems, came to the handrail and butted him with his shoulder, a subtle sign of support. “Life’s not over. There’s still plenty of good you can do.”

Danse half smiled, his head still down. A few serene moments passed before Danse looked at him, asking, “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Know me better than I do.”

John gave an irreverent smile. “You’re not that complicated.”

Danse’s unruffled exterior melted and his knuckles brushed John’s coat at the elbow. Moving slowly, lest he shock himself, Danse leaned until his shoulder was near to John’s. John met him the rest of the way. They stood, barely touching, elbows on the metal rail, letting the wind rustle their clothing, surrounded by salt air and sunlight.

Danse had to wonder if this was his life now – running, hunted forever, never seeing Haylen again, and continuing to reinforce an emotional barrier with John, who, despite Danse’s insults and the differences in their points-of-view, continued to offer himself as a brief respite between torments.

“I miss you,” John confessed. “Every damned day, I miss you.”

Danse hefted a sigh, tired of getting in his own way, and wrapped an arm around John’s waist. John kept his mouth shut and leaned into him.

“Aww. That’s really cute,” a voice carried from behind them. Startled, they both turned their heads.  “Sucker punch right to the feels. Gotta say though – all that sweetness kinda makes my teeth hurt a little. And it’s really hard to find a dentist that works with my schedule.”

Deacon stood in the shadow of one of the defunct fighter jets that were scattered across the deck, wearing a fresh, black suit with a silver tie, looking to the world as if he belonged in one of the Upper Deck cabins. A top hat completed his ensemble, pushing the outfit into Deacon’s standard realm of absurdity.

John and Danse drew apart. “Nice hat,” John groused. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Pointing a finger at him, Deacon said “Back at you, twit. I’m rescuing synths, like one does. That’s my job, you know.”

He had been found. If the Railroad agent had tracked them this far, Danse was certain that the local Brotherhood division could locate him just as easily. “How…how much did you hear?”

Deacon shrugged, taking the hat off and spinning it by the brim in his hands. He was bald today. “Just the parts I couldn’t help listening to.”

With a stiff hand, Danse cut a path through the air for emphasis. “I didn’t want _any_ of this.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” said Deacon, tossing his hat off to one side. “It got gift-wrapped and delivered, just for you.”

“So, now what?” John griped, still bristling. Danse couldn’t blame him. Deacon’s appearance had interrupted the closest he had come to forgiving John for attempting, and failing, to take his own life, leaving him altered.

Sudden ionization made the hairs on Danse’s arms go up. The air seemed to shift as if an electrical storm was about to hit.

Loosening his tie, Deacon shook his cuff, peered at a watch that wasn’t there, and pointed a finger skywards. “I think you’re gonna find out in about three, two, one –”

A column of white light slammed downwards into the aircraft carrier with a deafening crack and fizzle. Bolts of blue lightning spiked and flared from within. With a rush of sound, the light dissipated, leaving a lone figure in its wake.

X6-88 stood before them, his skin the color of molasses, heavy black coat falling to his ankles, laser rifle out and drawn prior to transit. The Courser’s face looked chiseled, frozen, eyes concealed behind his sunglasses.

“X6,” Danse spat, disdainfully. He had tolerated the Courser in the presence of his new Knight. His vault-dwelling pupil had insisted on peace between both parties and had received it without question. “What in God’s name are you doing in Rivet City?”

“Yeah, that’d be my bad,” Deacon piped up. “I brought him here.”

“Your assistance in this matter, while unexpected, has been most appreciated,” X6 addressed the spy in return, his voice smooth and impassive. Looking over his rifle, he then turned his attention to Danse. “M7-97, initialize factory reset.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Part of the Plan
> 
> I'm suffering from terrible de-motivation this week. I fully plan to go back into this series once it is done and rearrange all of the chapters in chronological order and tweak them a bit to get 'Director's Cut' versions of them. 
> 
> Please leave me a comment below: What do you like? How would you like to see things change?
> 
> Thanks for keeping me sane, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!


	13. Part of the Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 13: [Dream On - Aerosmith (Boyce Avenue acoustic cover)](https://youtu.be/wvCq6-zWw7M/)  
> More alt rock for Deacon's perspective.

DEACON

Rivet City, Washington DC

January 1st, 2288

“M7-97, initialize factory reset.”

Danse’s breath had caught; his mouth was open and his eyes were wide and petrified. It was actually kind of funny. Deacon wasn’t particularly concerned – he could tell how this was about to unfold. Sliding his glance to one side, he caught all the pieces falling into place. _Bingo. Right on schedule._

X6-88 droned on. “Authorization code –”

“X6!” a voice shouted from across the deck. A blast of green energy intervened, knocking the laser rifle out of the Courser’s hand and sending it spinning overboard. X6-88 regarded his empty hand before turning calmly to face his attacker.

Harkness had his plasma rifle up to his eye, staring the Courser down as he crossed the sundeck. “Those were my shades first.”

“A3-21,” X6 replied coolly. “This is an unexpected surprise. Still toting the same weapon, I see. Thank you for revealing your location. I will be certain to send a second unit for you.”

“This is the part where you disappear,” Deacon said to Danse in a hushed tone, shrugging out of his suit jacket. Still stunned, Danse looked confused at his suggestion. John grabbed Danse’s arm and shoved him brusquely in the direction of the Upper Deck cabins. Danse reluctantly escaped, leaving the others to face off against one of the Institute’s top operatives.

Harkness fired a second shot. This one caught X6 squarely in the chest. The Courser didn’t appear to feel it, even as his coat smoked and burned.

“Fuck this noise,” John cursed, pulling his shotgun. “If you still want to see me lose my shit, here it comes.”

“Knew you had it in you,” Deacon commended as he drew his own weapon.

They both opened fire, blasting holes in the Courser’s back, tearing chunks out of the bicast leather coat. X6 finally turned back to face the two of them and moved swiftly in their direction. John’s shotgun blew a larger spray of pellets at X6’s torso while Deacon switched tactics and aimed for the approaching Courser’s legs. Harkness continued to fire energy blasts at X6’s back. “Watch the head!” Deacon shouted to Harkness over the roar of gunfire.

Largely oblivious to their attack, X6 maneuvered in too close. He grabbed John’s shotgun by the fore end and hefted it, pulling John with it. He tosses the ghoul nearly twenty feet, his shotgun flying through the air and over the side, joining the Courser’s weapon at the bottom of the ocean.

“Careful. Coursers are wicked strong,” Deacon quipped at the fallen ghoul, trying on a Boston accent.

Maybe he should have heeded his own advice.

X6’s next move was to grab Deacon roughly by the shoulders and fling him into Harkness. The guard raised his weapon out of the way the instant before Deacon struck him with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs, bowling both of them to the ground. Both Deacon’s pipe gun and Harkness’s rifle clattered across the deck.

As the two operatives shoved away from each other, X6’s figure towered over them, Harkness’s rifle in his hands. “I do not respond well to treachery,” said the Courser.  

“Hey, junkie,” Deacon shouted to John. “Now’s a good time for some of that trademarked brilliance.”

An even taller form rose up from behind X6. Wrapping his arms around the Courser, Danse placed hands on either side of its head. In a single, fluid move, he snapped its neck. X6 collapsed in a lifeless heap.

“Or, ya know, that.” Deacon nodded. “That works, too.” He got to his feet and retrieved his gun and suit jacket. Swinging the coat over his shoulder, he addressed a few bystanders, poking their heads out of their cabins. “Show’s over. Don’t forget to tip your waitress. May I recommend the veal?” To Danse, he said “You stole my victory, man. Now I’m never gonna get that marble stature erected in my honor.”

“Don’t address me.” Rage was knotting up Danse’s shoulders. His fists shook furiously at his sides.

Harkness interjected, grabbing Deacon by the upper arm. “We had an agreement – you keep your bullshit off my boat. Clean this up. I don’t pick up after you anymore.”

“Wow. Nobody’s happy.” Deacon granted him a curt nod. “Outta your hair shortly, boss.”

Harkness let go of him and left to recover his own weapon.

Deacon draped his jacket over the ship’s railing and took stock of the scene –John was leaning over the railing of the ship, bent almost double as he looked down its side. “Shit,” he was grumbling. “I loved that gun.” Harkness was shaking his head and looking irate. Danse was still standing over the Courser’s body, chest heaving.

“You…what did you do?” Danse gasped at Deacon, tearing his eyes away from the Courser. “You brought it here.”

“Of course I did.” He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled up the sleeves. “I tipped off the Shitheads of Steel, too.”

“You…you, what?” Danse appeared utterly defeated now and he backed away.

Deacon flipped out a short knife and knelt over the Courser’s body. He drove the knifepoint through its skull. “Part of the plan,” he said, sawing through bone. “Had to ring the dinner bell. They’re probably on their way right now. Well, I had to make enough noise for the Institute to get wind of it, didn’t I? Brotherhood clogging radiowaves and terminal feeds would do just the trick. You’re way too valuable for the Institute to let you get tossed into some mass grave. They want what you have. They’ll want you alive when they pull your memories out of your head by force. Didn’t know who they’d send, but they sure as hell were gonna send someone.”

“Why did you do this to me?” Danse’s voiced sounded incredulous.

“Hate to break it to you, pal - You might be a big deal to those two sides, but to the Railroad, you’re not that important.” Deacon held up a bloody Courser Chip. “ _This is_.” He pulled off his tie, wrapped it around the Chip and pocketed it.

“You rat damn bastard, you used him as bait?” John was stalking back across the deck, ire sparking in his dark eyes.

“Desperate times, man. I take any angle I can. You gotta know that by now.”

“What do I do now?” asked Danse, watching the bloody mess that the Courser’s head had become.

Harkness returned, his weapon back in its holster. “Only solution: Wipe and run. Railroad’ll delete your memories and you can start over.”

Danse seemed to settle back into the present, his eyes focusing. “Run? Leave the Capital Wasteland? Leave the Commonwealth? Forever?”

“That’s how it works,” Deacon added. “New name, new face, new history. Everything else is gone for good.”

“But… where would I go?”

“I hear the Mojave cleaned up nice.”

Danse looked to John as if asking permission to consider the agents’ offer. John looked wounded, as if he were the one faced with losing everything. Danse shook his head, eyes still locked on John’s ebony stare. “No. Painful as they are, I want my memories. They’re all I have left.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: That Fate Bullshit
> 
> Why has no one written the comedy gold that is The Adventures of Deacon and Harkness? Deacon is totally the Dean to Harkness' Sam. 
> 
> Thank you plenty, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!


	14. That Fate Bullshit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 14: [Set Fire To The Rain - Adele - Acoustic Cover By Tyler Ward](https://youtu.be/y0bWLPv6JdI/)  
> A breath of fresh air before descending into the climax of the story.

DANSE

Rivet City, Washington DC

January 1st, 2288

He should have been proud. He should have been ecstatic at having dispatched a Courser with his bare hands. It was a stunning victory for any solider worth his rank. He just felt sick, that familiar brick of unease sitting heavily in his stomach. There were no allies, only those out for themselves. There would be no salvation. Danse was paralyzed, a single thought bearing grimly down on him as stared down at the body. “They know where I am.”

“Yeah, I got that when the scary guy came,” John said, kicking X6’s corpse. “Weren’t you here for that?”

“Both the Institute and the Brotherhood.” Danse couldn’t believe it. He didn’t stand a chance against both forces looking for him. “It’s over.”

Deacon was rolling his sleeves back down. Specks of blood were splattered all over his shirt. “I’ve never known someone who had the saddest story ever told. Sorry, man, but that’s how it goes. Look – live, die, do whatever you need to do. The world’s a whole lot bigger than you and it’s gonna keep on spinning. Bigger things are in play and they gotta take precedence.”

In Danse’s stupor, John launched to his defense, confronting Deacon. “Don’t know anything about you. I mean, I don’t get it. One minute, you’re helpin’ out, the next, you totally whip it around. Whose side are you supposed to be on, anyways?”

Deacon paused in the midst of buttoning his cuffs to wrinkle his nose at the ghoul. “I’m on mine. And I’m doing just fine at that. Dandy, even.”

John raised a brow. “Some agent. Looks like the Railroad’s coming apart at the seams. Aren’t your official orders to help him?”

Brushing dust and gunpowder from his shirt, Deacon muttered. “Crap. Got me there. I’m not an unreasonably bad person, you know.”

“Just a reasonably bad one, then,” John grumbled.

Danse pushed himself to concentrate. Self-preservation should be his focus. “How long do you think I have before Brotherhood forces show themselves?” he asked Deacon.

“They’re probably on their way now.”

“Or here already,” Harkness spoke up. “Two Vertibirds landed in Anacostia an hour ago. I’ve temporarily barred all entrances to the ship but the Brotherhood has been jamming our transmission lines all morning.”

“From where?” John asked.

Harkness pointed. Across the river, the Jefferson Memorial rose above the waterline in a mass of piping, marble, and Brotherhood insignias.  Danse felt a jolt at seeing it again, pumping great spouts of fresh water into the Potomac, enormous clouds of condensation billowing at the surface.

“Well,” John pondered, “think if we cause a big enough uproar over there, a few Brotherhood headhunters’d get sidetracked?” 

Danse swung around to face him. “Have you lost your senses? You would sabotage the Purifier?”

“Calm yourself. Of course not. But they don’t know that. I’m just some random ghoul to them, causin’ mayhem, as is expected.” His dark eyes twinkled with mischief.

“You…you would face the entire Project Purity detachment to distract them from me? Alone?” John had already done too much, brought him too far. There was no reason for him to continue delaying Danse’s capture. John was not his soldier, was not responsible for assisting him. Of all the people who had died carrying out Danse’s bidding, John had no obligation to put himself in jeopardy. 

“Well, hey,” Deacon huffed, “I guess, not alone. Least I can do is give you a hell of a head start out of here.”

“Keep it contained,” Harkness warned. “I have too many people to worry about.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The way he tilted his head, Deacon might have been rolling his eyes. “Your floating fishbowl of pets. Think you could at least get us started?”

Harkness acquiesced and, with time slipping by, Deacon and John scrambled to assemble a small arsenal of grenades and Molotovs. John was smashing bottles and filling his pockets with beads of glass. “Nothing that can be traced back to me, got it?” Harkness commanded, handing over extra ammunition for Deacon’s gun.

“That’d be weird, ‘cause I was never here,” Deacon assured.

Danse was nervous to see them go off with so little protection. John would be taking on a full Brotherhood battalion should he be caught. Without meaning to, he briefly thought of handing himself over to the patrol, sparing John from additional danger.

“I’m last person in the world you should know,” Danse said, disconsolate, as the Railroad agents bickered to one side. Thunderheads were mounting on the horizon, heavy black bellies fit to burst with rain.

John smiled up at him hearteningly, stuffing grenades into a sack. “Ain’t that up to me?”

Danse hated himself for not being the person reflected in John’s eyes. “I didn’t pick you. The very first person that I met on my own…I was supposed to be with you. I’m certain of it. And I didn’t. I threw you away.”

John waved away his concern. “Fuck that fate bullshit. Maybe you _were_ meant to choose me. So what? What we kept up – that was real, Institute protocol or not. You’re giving them way too much credit over every detail in your life.” He stood, swinging the pack of explosives onto his back. “You can cover yourself until you get to the dock, right? Just use my name – my old one. Ferryman’ll take you wherever you want. Stealth it at a hundred ‘til you get there. We goin’?” he shouted to Deacon.

“Right behind you.”

John ducked through a hatch and disappeared into stairwell.

“Seriously,” Deacon asked as he passed Danse, “what do you see in this guy?”

Danse threw him an irritated look, brows furrowed. “He knows when to shut up.”

“Touché.” Deacon vanished into the same hatch.

Danse hesitated before rushing forward, pulling the hatch open, and whisking himself inside. “John?” he called, looking down the stairwell.

Below him, the ghoul paused in his rush down the stairs, coat swirling as he swung to face Danse. He cocked his head, his hat at an angle. Enormous, dark eyes stared up at him.

Danse needed to say something. Something like _I’m sorry,_ or _Don’t die,_ or _I miss you, too._ He chose to add nothing. He didn’t have to. Their bond had not been founded on dialogue.

John nodded, forcing a smile.

“I’ll find you,” Danse promised.

“Where?”

Good question.

“Sanctuary. I feel as if that location is the last possible option for me. I can regroup there before deciding my next move.”

“Hell of a walk from the Commonwealth docks.”

This was true. Danse would have to travel through the northern part of the state, as most forces would be focused further down. Although he wasn’t too familiar with the area, one location sprang to mind. “There is an additional bunker further north than Bravo. Theta. I’ll wait for you.” And he would. No matter how long it took. No matter if John never appeared. He would wait.

“What’s it with you and old bunkers? Stay cool. See you there.”

“Hey, are we doing this or not?” called Deacon. “I’ve got a meatloaf in the oven. Extra forty-five minutes, tops.”

They vacated the stairwell, leaving Danse by himself. The hatch clanged above and Harkness joined him. “I have to reopen the entry. I’ll show you out the back way.”

As Danse followed him, he said “I have one last question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Why Cutler? How did he fit in to my creation?” They turned a corner and descended another level.

“A soldier was selected from a Brotherhood roster. Institute did what it does best – it took him.”

“But…he was killed at Green Valley, as part of a mutant hive.”

“No. His memories were taken and downloaded into your programming. In many ways, you _are_ Cutler – your training memories, growing up, personality, that’s all him.”

Danse stopped. “I killed him. I remember clearly…”

Harkness took a few more steps before noticing that Danse wasn’t following. “Who else can verify that, other than you?”

“I…no one. I was the only survivor…or I…I assumed that I was and that…”

None of it. None of it was real. All that existed was pre-programmed pain.

“I need to send a message.”

“Make it brief,” Harkness said.

With the agent on lookout, Danse accessed a terminal and, using the Bravo interface, relayed a message to Haylen’s computer at Cambridge. _Where Brandis was recovered._ Poor Haylen must be a wreck right now; him missing, patrols sent all the way to the Capitol, and the Institute an ever-present treat on the horizon.

Harkness left him once he had exited the ship, making a fast trek back to the docks, the skies beginning to dumb water in copious amounts.

Several explosions occurred between Rivet City and the Jefferson Memorial and Danse’s heart sank. John and Deacon were currently hard at work, buying him time, while he ran like a coward.

Though he knew it would have been cumbersome and quite impractical to bring, Danse wished he had been able to retrieve his suit of armor. He felt naked and exposed without it. With it, he could have worn his disgust at himself on his face without anyone to witness it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Loose Ends
> 
> Companion death #2: X6-88. I will say that, in this season, I do miss writing for the whole group. But since Season 2 is pretty much on the road the whole time, I had to whittle the cast down to just a few characters. Let me know what you think below!
> 
> Thanks for being That Guy, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!


	15. Loose Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 15: [David Garrett - We Will Rock You](https://youtu.be/rTWPQMYo4Og/)  
> Colonial rock - very much how I hear Fallout 4.

JOHN

Rivet City, Washington DC

January 1st, 2288

Thunderclouds clogged the sky, making it look as if night had fallen too early.

“Rain’s coming in,” Deacon remarked. “And me without my galoshes. Looks like we’re gonna get wet.”

“Heh. That’s what she said,” jibed John.

They had popped out of a side hatch, taking the stairway that hugged the ship down, avoiding the marketplace entirely. No orange or armor in sight. Hopping down onto the extended walkway that linked Rivet City to the mainland, Deacon shook his head. “I don’t know who’s a worse influence, me or you.”

“Definitely you, Brother. I own my lies,” John said, joining him.

“Do you?” asked Deacon, casting a glance in his direction as they took the long, exposed walk to the other side of the portcullis. “Look, I don’t know what the hell is going on with you guys but the two of you – you’re not snowflakes, you’re the same. You don’t see gray, only black and white, good and evil, or right and wrong. This is causing you more grief than necessary. Just get over it and make out already. The fans expect it.”

As the mayor of an average-sized settlement, John had encountered a certain amount of people being engrossed with his personal life, and yet, he had never had to explain Danse to anyone, not even to Piper, heedless of her prying. That information was certainly not going to be won by Deacon, of all people.

John turned to find Deacon dressed in the skin-tight, black uniform of a Brotherhood officer. “The hell?” he asked, gesturing at the spy’s outfit.

“What? This old thing? Saw it at Fashion Week and just had to have it. I’ve been a double agent for years, you know. Elder in three different divisions. Taught Maxson everything he knows. He still sends me Christmas cards.”

“I’ll bet.” Crouched in a corner of the entry platform, looking down through the rusted framework, John scanned the area. There. By the entryway, next to the water depot, six Brotherhood soldiers milled, two in armor, four without. “How you wanna go about this?”

“Me? I’m staying here and drawing some eyes my way. You’re the mad ghoul bent on destroying the Purifier. So, uh, I’d start running if I were you.” Tilting his head, John didn’t quite follow. “No. Seriously,” Deacon continued. “Run now.”

“Sir,” a Brotherhood Knight called up, having spotted Deacon in his uniform. “Do we have additional orders?”

John took a tentative step away from him before darting to vault over the side of the scaffolding, dangling before his feet hit the next section, dropping down one level at a time. He landed with a subdued thump opposite of where the soldiers teemed.

Deacon’s voiced traveled. “Yeah, you bet – I saw this guy over in the west section of the ship. Tall, brooding, caterpillar eyebrows. Sound like our mark?”

John shoved his hand into his breast pocket, drawing out a complicated-looking inhaler. John took two hits of X-Cell, one after the other. His heart rate soared as his system was flooded with pure adrenaline. If he were to be shot, he would barely feel it. Good – that made this insanity seem far less hopeless. He took several explosives in his hands and forced his cloudy brain to focus where he was going. The Memorial loomed before him, a monument dedicated to Jefferson, a man who had been an asshole but a patriot, with respectable trading policies. Fitting – John could relate.

A hatch above gonged and John could only hope that at least a few of the soldiers had followed Deacon inside.

He sprinted, regardless of who – or what – might see him. Jerking the pin out, John lobbed a grenade. It exploded in the river as he flew past it. Water flumed upwards, giving away his location. He tossed another one back over his shoulder and it detonated in the disintegrating path to the Memorial. His ears rang as he charged forward, boots splashing through pools of river water in the road.

Several super mutants bellowed, but John was past them now. If they charged down the rise and into the commotion that John had caused, they would be the Brotherhood patrol’s problem. Sure enough, the sounds of missile launchers and laser fire crashed in a cacophony of sound behind him. He left them to their battle, hoping that the mutants could keep the patrol properly occupied.

The Memorial was laced with a variety of platforms. Going to the lower levels would be suicide, as an entire fleet of bored, trigger-happy soldiers would sitting around playing Caravan, happy to see a ghoul stumble into their midst. Having experienced a decent head start, John climbed up the scaffolding on the outside. He scrambled across wide pipes as the sky opened and rain started to fall.

Danse had to have made it out of Rivet City by now. What remained was to keep the units preoccupied until the ferry left the dock. Thirty minutes, maybe? Where the hell was Deacon? John was sure that he hadn’t kept up. The agent could have been lost to the wind by now.

“Knight Rhys, on top of the piping,” a mechanized voice warned.

John paused to locate the source. Two members of the Brotherhood patrol, one in armor and one without, were close on his heels. He took a running head start to jump from the pipes to the roof of the Memorial. He leapt and scaled his way up the dome of the Memorial. At the height of the building he swung to face the soldiers coming for him, rain cascading down his face, the effects of the X-Cell keeping his vision clear despite the water dripping into his eyes.

A Knight in orange scrambled after him, making the jump with far less effort than it had taken John. The building shook as his teammate in armor, assisted by a jet pack, landed onto the roof as well. John held his arm out to steady himself as the roof vibrated.

Taking aim at John’s head, the Knight in orange, spat “The freak in the costume. I killed you already.” He resembled Finn far too closely for comfort.

“Didn’t take,” John huffed, the words difficult to speak. X-Cell still raged in his body, clogging his speech. What had the other soldier said? Rhys? That was a dumb name. “Won’t find him.” John shook his head, droplets flying from the crests of his hat. “Gone.”

The Knight cursed. “Get back to Rivet City and reclaim the rest of the team,” he ordered the other soldier. “This was a diversion.” The solider in armor stepped off of the roof and plummeted from sight, rushing to accommodate his command. The Knight then turned full attention to John, pinning him with the sight of his laser rifle. “Why?” he asked, approaching him. “Why would you help it?”

John smirked, circling to one side, hands drifting to his pockets. “One freak to another.”

“You know where that atrocity is. And you’re going to tell me.” The Knight’s aim dropped from John’s head to his legs, not intending for him to die immediately. John knew his type. Rhys clearly wasn’t going to leave any loose ends in trying to wrap up his mission to find Danse, and if this included torturing John to death in order to get what he wanted, he gladly would.

In a flash of chem-boosted speed, John flung handfuls of glass shards at Rhys’ eyes. The Knight howled and jumped, losing grip on his weapon. John swung his leg to knock the laser rifle off of the roof, preventing Rhys from wresting it back from John should he be wielding it.

With a bellow, the Knight threw his body into John, knocking him down. Suddenly on his back, John struck out with both legs, boots catching Rhys in the chest, forcing him away. John rolled, getting to his feet as his coat was grabbed from behind. The Knight swung him wide and far. He barely registered the rain soaking through his coat as his boots slid over the wet concrete, sending him over the edge of the Memorial. Thankful for enhanced reflexes, John grabbed the lip of the roof with both hands. He swung perilously from the proscenium of the entryway, wide columns stretching down below him. As he fought to pull himself up he could see the Knight encroaching.

“Where is it hiding? I know that you’ve been with it since Bravo. Tell me!”

John looked down, water running down the brim of his hat. The ground was easily one hundred feet down. As he struggled, he let loose a strained yell, wrestling panic. Despite the chems, he wasn’t strong enough to keep hanging on for much longer. Hands roughly gripped his wrists, hauling him up. The Knight lugged John closer, switching to grab him by the lapels, shaking him. “Where is it? What have you done with it?”

The freezing rain switched to hail, battering the both of them. Balls of ice clattered onto the roof, rolling down the sides of the dome. Clutching the collar of his coat, Rhys forced John to stumble backwards and tipped him back, holding him over the edge of the building. With his heels just barely touching the roof, John’s arm flew wide, pinwheeling as he fought for balance. He grabbed at the Knight’s arm with one hand, his other arm dangling at his side.

“You’d fight and you’d die for that thing?” Rhys roared, pushing his face close to John’s. “It isn’t real. It doesn’t have a soul. It doesn’t care about you.”

The ghoul looked Rhys dead in the eyes, forcing his full attention, slipping one hand behind his back. Like a snake striking, the ghoul sank his knife into Rhys’ throat, causing the Knight to jerk backwards, pulling John away from the edge.

“You don’t know him,” John snarled, slowly driving the Knight with the blade in his throat, turning them so that they switched places. He drove the point deeper, propelling Rhys backwards, making him choke on steel and frothing blood. “Just like you don’t know shit about me.”

He drew his knife back and released the Knight to tumble from the roof onto the wet pavement below. Thunder clashed, obscuring the sound of an impact. John leaned over the edge. A crumbled body lay sprawled on the marble stairs, orange suit leaking red streams of blood to merge with puddles of rain.

John exhaled hard, the storm battering his back.

There was a cold, metal click that barely registered over the beat of the hail. He turned around to find Deacon on the roof, leveling a gun at him. John ground his teeth, having had had about enough of Deacon’s duplicity. As his body hummed, coming down from the X-Cell, Deacon stepped closer.

“Hey, uh, you still in there, partner?” A reflection bounced off of Deacon’s glasses – a feral ghoul with glowing gold eyes.

Whipping around, John scanned the rooftop. Nothing. He looked back. That same feral stared back at him, only this time, he noticed that it wore a wide tricorne hat.

Squeezing his eyes shut, John drew several panicky breaths, seeking to push the influence of the chem from his body. Gradually, his heartbeat sank back into a regular rhythm and the tense muscles in his shoulders relaxed.  When he opened his eyes again, the reflection seemed normal – black eyes, black hat, black sky.

Putting his gun away, Deacon produced a scribe uniform and a gas mask. “I figured you might wanna get back out again.”

Escape hadn’t been high on John’s list of concerns. But he had promised Danse that they would reunite. Failing to appear would devastate him. As he took the garments, he found himself astoundingly grateful that the spy hadn’t left him on his own.

“By the way,” Deacon said, as John stripped out of his sopping layers, “Your disguise is way better than mine. Your costume is seamless. No telling where the real you actually begins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Picture It
> 
> Hope you enjoyed my overly-ambitious chapter! 
> 
> Thank you, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/)!


	16. Picture It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 16: [How To Save A Life- The Fray (Max Schneider and Tyler Ward Cover)](https://youtu.be/XZd2CSgJkYs/)  
> I wanted something that sounded very much like a lazy summer night.

JOHN

Water Falls, Canadian Province East

August 2nd, 2278

John pressed his naked back against warm, rough rock. Angular boulders were slightly slick beneath his bare feet. With a sharp intake of breath, he ran, leaping into the air. His arms flew wide as he fell. Cool water shocked his skin as he landed. He suffered a moment of swirling disorientation before twisting towards fractured sunlight and breaking the surface. He ran his hands over his head, squeezing saturation from his hair as he spat a flume of water from his mouth. 

“See? No big,” he shouted back up the cliff side. The edges of his flag floated in the direction of the surface, threatening to tangle in his arms as he kept himself buoyant. His pants, even with the cuffs rolled up as far as they could go, hindered his movement as his kicked.

Tentative, Danse peered over the edge and down into the lake. His thighs looked massive under a pair of torn denim shorts. “Are you alright?” he called down.

“Course I am.” Clearly, Danse hadn’t believed him, as his tense body posture remained locked. “You’re up!” John paddled in a circle as he waited for him to make up his mind. Danse could be dense at times, but he was loyal and handsome and bold.

As if proving as much, Danse dove headfirst, arms pointing in perfect form, slicing through the water’s surface in a much cleaner landing than John’s had been. _Show off_ , he grinned.

Sunlight sparkled on the surface as Danse emerged, turning the clear water choppy, and shook water from his dark, thick, coarse hair. John’s own was light and fine, but plentiful, and he could tease it into a decent mane if he wanted to. Danse’s ever-present stubble defined his jaw while John couldn’t grow a beard if he tried. The best he could manage left his face looking more dirty then rugged, so he kept it clean.

It was late summer and the bright sun and clean glacial water felt fantastic. Although John had brought a supply of chems with him, he had remained sober. For once, it seemed as if he was able to pull himself together, as Danse witnessing him as a jittery mess was the last thing he wanted.

Stroking towards him, Danse’s eyes looked copper in the sunlight. His nose had been broken since the last time John had seen him and it hadn’t set quite straight. This was nothing new – Danse was always nursing some new injury or scar. Danse caught him around the middle and they dissolved into playful attempts at drowning each other. They yelled and laughed, the sounds amplified by the rock walls surrounding them.

They existed in a fantastic vacuum, just the two of them. Secluded. Private. Their relationship had moved along effortlessly. He was honest to a fault, unassuming and trusted John entirely while never asking for anything. He smiled at John as if he were important and that much meant everything to an addict trying to find his place. To call Danse a friend seemed like an inconsequential label. John hadn’t had someone this steady since Stacia on Liberty Isle and, even then, they had both been little more than children.

The stagnant reality of John’s life in Diamond City was punctuated only by his trips to Goodneighbor or the rare journey to meet Danse at some far off location. The distance and infrequency of their visits was hard – he had grown to miss the big lug. The one-sidedness of their communication method was difficult to accept, leaving John to wait for correspondence while Danse was off bringing death and destruction to those who fought back against Brotherhood rule. He hated knowing that was what he did but the person who came to see him had remained true to their agreement and never mentioned it. That it didn’t impact either of them was an easy enough lie for John to tell himself. It also seemed as if Danse had forgiven him for bringing Calmex into his life. Although some nights he fought it, the early morning hours often found him with unit in hand, handling the injections himself as John had taught him. Their nights together were exponentially more peaceful now, with Danse sleeping harder and longer, with John in his arms.

As the sun set, they walked side by side around the lake, their hands entwined on one side where Danse’s arm draped over John’s shoulder, each had an arm around the other’s waist. John was talking about the details of some visit to Williamsburg he had taken years ago, looking at Danse’s face while he walked. Danse had his eyes ahead, guiding where they stepped. “Rock,” Danse said, interrupting John’s story and pulling him around the obstacle. John squeezed his fingers and studied Danse’s profile, the man keeping an eye out for the both of them.

It was in that very small moment that John realized he loved Danse. Stunned, he tripped. Danse’s grasp kept him from falling.

“Are you alright?”

“I…yeah.”

Long after night had fallen, the air remained warm. Seated on a few discarded plastic patio chairs, they ate a modest dinner barefoot, around a simple cooking station. Initially, Danse hadn’t been in favor of a fire out in the open but after two days without an incident, of nothing happening and no one coming across them, he had caved, loosening his stanch demeanor. The memory of fucking Danse in, not only open air, but broad daylight as well had been well worth the wait and would remain with John forever.

“May I ask you a question?” Danse asked him, firelight giving his skin a coral glow.

“Apart from the one you just asked? Sure,” John answered around a mouthful of hoser root.

Danse, who never talked with his mouth full, swallowed his charred radrabbit and even took a sip of his Nuka before speaking. “The flag. Why do you keep it with you?”

Unprepared for this and, well aware of Danse’s opinions, John hesitated to answer. But he wanted Danse to know, wanted to tell him. “Look,” he said slowly. “If I explain this, you need to promise not to freak out, okay?”

Danse’s brows met as horizontal lines stacked on his forehead. “I’ll certainly try.”

John put his mealtime items aside took Danse’s hands. “It’s important to me. Largely, because it used to be important to someone else.” John heaved a breath, looking down. Danse’s hands were large in his. “For a hell of a long time, I wandered the Wastes, seein’ sights, studying history and law and all that heavy stuff that most folks can’t even wrap their heads around. But I didn’t go alone. I brought someone with me. Didn’t take a standard merc as they’d have gotten real sick of why I was out there to begin with. Didn’t need a killer, I needed a guard. So, I bought one.” John halted in his story. Garrett’s face filled his memories. The fire crackled and popped, orange embers set loose to float through the air. “He was with me for seven years, even after I terminated his contract. We stayed in vaults and libraries, old campuses – any place I could do my writing. The flag was his,” John finally admitted. “It was his final reward after centuries of service.”

Danse’s gaze narrowed. “Centuries? What? You…you traveled with a ghoul?” The disgust on Danse’s face was clear. He took his hands out of John’s.

John decided exclude mentioning West, his other companion. Adding that additional piece of information could send Danse over the edge and he certainly understood which battles to fight and which to walk away from. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. “What am I gonna say – that I’m sorry he kept me alive? Before the war, he was a solider, same as you.” Danse’s cheek twitched. “Yes – just like you,” John hammered home. “Both lifetime soldiers. Only Garrett’s term of service got extended. And that wasn’t his fault. He fought from Anchorage to D.C. and lived through all of it. Ghoul or not, the two of you had a lot in common. Blind faith in your government, belief in your cause, and loyal beyond all logic. So his skin rotted – and? Whenever I see you, you’ve been busted up on the job. If you had some awful irradiated accident, am I supposed to blame you for it?” John was just running his mouth at this point and knew it. Danse had long since looked away from him, watching the swirls of flame instead. The crackle of burning embers was the only sound in their small clearing for some time. He squirmed in his seat, anxious. “Dan…please. Say something.”

Danse dropped his gaze. He still looked unhappy as his attention turned back to John. “What happened to him?” he asked, voice flat.

“He…I…” John sucked air and held it as pain flared in his chest. “He changed. I had to kill him.”

Danse’s face slacked. He put his hand on John’s arm.

“Kind of a shit thing to do, right?” John forced a smile that almost immediately died. “I coulda left him. He wasn’t gonna be able to hurt anybody. But leaving him like that…that wasn’t who I was. I know you’ve got this thing in your mind where all ghouls get what’s coming to them, but Garrett…he was a hero right up until the end. He can’t bare his flag anymore. But I can. It’s me saying _I’m sorry I couldn’t save you_. I hang onto it because he can’t. And I’ll die before someone takes it from me.”

Danse pulled him out of his seat by the arm and, as John stood, wrapped his arms around his waist, hugging him with his head against John’s stomach. Shocked, John didn’t move. “Wait – what just happened?” he asked.

Danse pulled away, looking as if he were fighting tears. “This world is a terrible place, on occasion. Outliving someone you – someone you know, creates a burden too heavy to bear. I don’t wish that on anyone.” He sank back in his chair.     

“I mean, hell…Can you picture it – me, a warrior?” John asked, still standing before him. “That’s what I’d have been reduced to if I hadn’t been able to purchase a friend to fight for me.”

“No.” Danse shook his head, looking troubled. “I have zero desire to be engaged in combat with you by my side. The idea of it sickens me. Never speak of it again.”

“Wow. What do you really think? Don’t hold back.” A corned of John’s mouth turned up in a smile.

“I…I care for you,” Danse confessed, emotion making his eyes hazy. “It is important that you stay safe.”

“You don’t think I can’t manage that?” John asked, bracing himself forward by grabbing the arms of Danse’s chair.

“By your own admittance, no.”

“Hmm.” John leaned forward, bringing his mouth close to Danse’s. “Guess there’s only so much I’m good for.” His teeth grazed Danse’s neck.

Danse took him by the shoulders and held him straight out. “You’re smart and cunning, two traits that are both rare and valuable. You sell yourself far too short. There are many things that you excel at, John McDonough.”

John slid out of his grasp. “Yeah, I know.” He lifted Danse’s shirt and kissed his way down his body, settling to his knees. Letting his hot breath linger over Danse’s navel, he said “This just happens to be one of them.” His mouth trailed downwards.

Danse’s hands knotted in his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: As You Were
> 
> Just a sweet little scene between dramas.


	17. As You Were

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the song on the radio: [Boulevard of Broken Dreams - Soul Green Day Cover](https://youtu.be/riZck9O-kBU/)  
> Sad, sad Green Day.

DANSE

Recon Bunker Theta, MA

January 5th, 2288

A cheery sun mocked him, its reflection dancing happily on the metal surfaces within the bunker. The flora nearby was more sympathetic, changing to suit him. Something had gone dark inside of himself and the once lush vegetation surrounding Theta mirrored his mood, foliage having turned brown and died when the atmosphere had changed. After another day spent alone in the shelter, Danse’s newest habit had become pacing. Walk, walk, look out of the open door, turn, walk, walk, turn, repeat. Night fell as he walked the same ten-foot span again and again, long shadows stretching to climb the walls. A terminal, mounted on the outside of the doorway, controlling entry in and out of the facility, sat powered but dark.  The radio was on, an old bluesy song playing, and Danse was well aware that he was challenging any passerby who heard it to a duel. That much was fine – he only had to live long enough to fulfill one last obligation.

Reliving the boat ride to DC kept his mind occupied while his body was restless, replaying the trip over and over. His severe disillusionment had forced him into silence and self-hatred, hiding in the cabin while being transported, instead of speaking to anyone, to John in particular. After a few attempts to speak with him, Danse had snapped at him too many times, the ghoul had spent the three days’ trip gambling and drinking with the crew, while Danse had sulked alone. Now, he regretted that choice. If there had even been a time to let someone crack through his thick exterior, it was then. Meeting the other synth, having Cutler taken away…he’s wished that he hadn’t even bothered with going back to Rivet City. The journey back had been worse, wanting to say something yet having no one to talk to. He had full conversations with John – in his mind, of course – and said everything that he needed to. That much had been very refreshing. The lonesome trek through upstate Massachusetts that had followed had been uneventful. Recon Bunker Theta was still vacant when he arrived – the chance of raiders or Wasteland creatures taking up residence in any place sheltered or reasonably warm being high.

Pace, pace, turn.

“Hey, you. Come here often?” a voice grated.

Danse put a hand to his chest as his heart tried to wedge itself into his mouth. Lazy. He was lazy and negligent, getting lost in his own memories. He deserved to be shot.

With one elbow casually propped against the doorway, John smirked at him, the tails of his flag swinging above crossed shins. How dramatic, and very like John, to need to make an entrance. Danse snorted his disgust through his nose even as relief flooded into him, calming his fluttering heart.

“Well, trust you to pick the best digs in the ‘Wealth,” John said, haughtily, looking around the dark bunker. A single halogen bulb shone at the entrance, barely illuminating the room. “Ya know, place’d be more secure if you locked the door.”

“I was waiting for you.”

That arrogant grin flickered and John dropped his arm from the doorway. John was armed again, both with a plasma pistol and a pipe variety one. “Still, you’re not that stupid. Not unless you’re trying to get caught. You wouldn’t do that, right? Not after all you’ve done to find answers.”

“ _Answers_ ,” Danse repeated harshly. “Is that what I found? All that I appeared to have uncovered was the knowledge of how twisted the Institute actually is. It had been my hope that a Daniel Danse had existed. That he had been a soldier. That he had been a real person. And that the body that I’m in was only a recent copy of someone that had earned the honors given to him. Instead, I’m just an experiment that has failed to serve its purpose. I regret running from my Brothers in the Glowing Sea. I have upset all of our lives.” He had to ask him. This was why he had waited. Danse approached him, lingering just within reach. “Why did you help me? Why come to Bravo to reclaim me at all? I certainly didn’t deserve your help.”

“I couldn’t _not_ help.” John leaned against the doorframe, the single light bulb highlighting one side of his worn face. “All I do is try and suck less than everybody else, and if I’ve got the ability to make a difference, then you better believe that I’m gonna use it.” Sighing, he folded his arms, hunching in the doorway. “Hell, Dan – you’ve always been crap at letting anyone look out for you. Probably why you like being in charge. But I’m never just gonna leave you to face whatever’s coming for you alone.” He smiled easily enough. “I’d like to think that you’d do the same for me. But I ain’t as dumb as I might look. I know that part’s done.” The smile wavered meekly. “I never wanted to lose you. Did everything I could to keep that from happening.”

“I know,” Danse said, quietly. In their past, John had been honest, stating his intentions as clearly as he could while Danse had dodged and parried, keeping him at a distance. John’s loyalty to him was as ever unbending as the vow that Danse had made to the Brotherhood.

“But it’s never gonna be enough, is it? I finally got what I’ve always wanted – you’re free. Brotherhood would never take you back, even if you wanted.” Danse felt bitter about hearing John say that, despite it being true. “And now look at me,” John continued, shaking his head as he looked down at himself. “So ugly that I can’t get anyone to look at me two nights in a row ‘less I pay them. I didn’t want this life, but it’s what I’ve got. And now, you’re back in it.”

Throwing all caution to the wind, John took his hand. Danse allowed it. “I know you hate yourself for existing – I get it, believe me. But it’s not like you think it is.” Sentiment clogged John’s already gruff voice. “You’re not a machine, Dan. You ain’t like Codsworth, not like Nick, hell, you’re not even like Curie. You’re like nobody that I’ve ever known. And I didn’t come all this way just to watch you give up.” His tears began to fall.

Watching John cry was terrifying. His tears flowed in glowing green drops, luminescent against the tanned skin of his face, made to seem even brighter in the dark, a further reminder of how far removed he was from the person that he had once been. Danse had no idea if this was a normal characteristic for ghouls, but it certainly was disturbing. John seemed to realize as much and he turned away, dropping Danse’s hand.

Danse’s horror extended to himself as well. There existed a series of words or phrases that could incite him to do anything. They could be spoken – or, for all he knew, could see them written – and he would be powerless to stop himself. If his encoding classified John as a random ghoul enemy, he might be powerless to stop himself. Treading past John, Danse elected to stand before him in the path that ran alongside Theta, putting his hands on his shoulders. “John, I am terrified that I will hurt you – that I won’t choose to, but that the Brotherhood programming given to me by the Institute will make me. That I’ll turn around or I’ll blink and you’ll already be dead and I’ll have no memory of it. Or that I’ll be aware, screaming at myself to stop, not being able to, and have to watch you die by my hand. Please…Don’t trust me. Everything was a lie. Nothing was real. Nothing has _ever_ been real.”

Those glowing tears rolled down the slope of John’s jaw. “One thing was,” he insisted. “Same thing – _the only thing_ – that I’ve never run from.” John’s dark eyes finally engaged his. With the light behind him now, they were bottomless and black, a void siphoning him. Cautiously, John reached out with one hand. He moved the pad of one thumb lightly down the scar over Danse’s eye.

Danse felt something shatter inside of him and he couldn’t stop the words. “Was I ever with you because I wanted to be? Or was it all just programming, making me pick someone like you? Maybe I withheld emotion because my coding to be a superior example overrode my feelings for you, made you seem temporary, inconsequential. I will always regret my treatment of you – both as you were and as you are. I was embarrassingly wrong.” He looked John in the eyes without flinching. “I was so goddamned lucky to have found you at all. And, in the end, I threw it all away.” Reading the trepidation in the ghoul’s eyes, Danse felt the crushing weight of blame. “John…I am so sorry for bringing us here.”

Before Danse even knew what was happening, John had taken a step closer and was boldly kissing him hard on the mouth. Danse didn’t even have time to close his eyes. Just as suddenly, John pulled away and cringed, apologetic. “Fuck,” he said, shoulders tensing as he braced for Danse’s vengeance.

Danse’s shoulders dropped and he gave in with an agonized sigh, returning John’s kiss with a greater thirst, taking hold of the ghoul’s ruined face. In his hands – in his _heart_ – it was easy to feel the John he remembered, to imagine smooth, pale skin and flowing hair. He knew this dance. The moves hadn’t changed. He knew that John would run his fingers up the back of his head to tangle in the hair at his crown. That when the parted, he would twist his face to hungrily kiss Danse’s wrist. John did not disappoint his expectations. “My John,” he breathed.

His, wrapped in someone else’s skin, dipped in scars. He was still the man who had made his breath catch in his throat and set his nerves on fire. John tasted like smoke and the artificial fruit flavorings of Mentats. His body burned like a furnace in Danse’s hands. A stifling feeling was rising up inside, blossoming out into his limbs with warm tendrils. In that moment, he knew that he could learn to care about John again. He wanted to, could choose to. Danse _did_ want to try, to see how much of themselves they could recapture, if it were even possible. That knowledge broke his heart.

Reaching a swift resolution, Danse drew a determined breath. “Forgive me.”

That’s when Danse pushed him. He shoved John back into the bunker with force and smashed the terminal at the door clear off the wall with a fist, fingers pulling at wires as he drew his hand back. The door sprung shut and locked as Danse turned his back to the bunker. There were muffled thumps and panicked yells as John pounded on the door. It will take time for him to find another way out, squeezing his thin body through an air duct or breaking his way into a roof access.

Danse’s heart pounded. As he walked to the path, he turned his face up to the stars peppering an ominously black sky. They looked just like they always had. But they didn’t shine for him – his presence intruded on their brilliance. But he finally understood his place and the price that went with it.

It would never end for him. He would be hunted and fired upon whenever he went. The Brotherhood, the Institute, neither would rest until his body had been recovered. Anyone around him would be caught in the crosshairs. Danse would go to his death proudly, without John as a witness. It would have been cruel not to have banished him.

He was only a few paces down the path when his breath fled from his lungs.  

Someone in Danse’s own armor was waiting for him on the dirt trail, dings and scuffs in familiar places. The lights on the outside of the bunker made the red paint look like dried blood. _Rhys_ , Danse thought darkly, coming to a stop. He wouldn’t allow himself to feel anything. Rage, despair, it didn’t matter. His life was no longer his own. Danse’s gaze fell to the dirt path, lest he lose his nerve. He settled himself to his knees and reached up to lace his fingers behind his head. “Go ahead. I accept my fate. Do want you have to. I won’t stand in your way.”

“Danse, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” the man in Danse’s armor asked. It was not Rhys’ voice.

Danse’s fingers immediately slid apart. “Knight Sterling?”

The Knight chuckled and tucked his – _Danse’s_ – helmet under one arm. He shook unruly dark hair from his forehead as he looked down on Danse. “This is pretty weird. You look so tiny from up here.”

With a ping of metal on metal, the helmet was shot from the Knight’s hand. He pulled an exploding shotgun and threw himself into a crouch as Danse remained close to the ground.

“Long as you fuckers keep showing up, I’ll keep dropping you,” John’s voice rang in his ears, the pitch unmistakably his.

“John, wait!” Danse ordered, rising to his feet. John dropped from the top of the bunker, both pistols brandished.

The Knight cocked his head, dark eyes narrowed in confusion. “Hancock? What the hell are you doing here?”

John lowered his weapons, blinking at him through round eyes. “Shit. Nate?”

Nate frowned, even as amusement lit his eyes. “I can’t leave you guys for one day, can I?”

“Knight Sterling, how did you find me?” Out of the entire contingent, Sterling was the one soldier who would hesitate to murder him.

“Haylen sent me to get you. The Brotherhood is used to me disappearing without a full patrol to back me up. If anyone asks, I’m down in Quincy right now. Maxson thought I should have your armor with me when I gunned you down, proving a point as to how easily you’d be replaced. Sorry about that. I’m sure it stings.” He held a finger in the air. “Oh! I found an audio file with you and Haylen on it. Seemed incriminating, so I deleted it.”

Knight Nate Sterling, savior of the Commonwealth, grinned down at him. “You…you’re here to save me? Why? After all I’ve taught you…you don’t believe in any of it?”

“Well…at first I just wanted the armor and some Vertibird grenades so I didn’t die if the wind blew too hard. But after meeting you and Haylen and rest of our Brothers and Sisters – I just wanted to help you. I guess that’s my fatal flaw – spreading myself too thin and caring too much.” His smile faded and he regarded Danse as if their roles were reversed, placing Danse as the new recruit. “I can’t imagine how you feel right now. I am happy that you aren’t alone, though, no matter how odd the company,” he added raising a brow at John.

“I feel….immensely guilty to be alive.” That much was true. His existence seemed to cause nothing but problems for everyone around him.

“Danse, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Sterling insisted, the space between his brown crinkling. His friendly eyes looked tired. “You fight it. You fight it because you can, because you’re stronger, because you’re better than this. I know you, and you are going to be just fine. You’ll find a way to still bring justice to Commonwealth. What I’m being asked to do – it’s horrible and it’s immoral and I utterly refuse to do it.”

“Knight, if Maxson knew that you simply let me go, you’d be throwing away everything you’ve accomplished.”

“No, I won’t. See, you’re already dead and you don’t have any say in the matter.” Nate held out his hand, metal palm up. “Give me your holotags.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: DN-407P
> 
> I think that my writing has drastically changed since this series began (chapters are more than twice as long now!) and I'm looking forward to going back through the series in the Director's Cut versions once I reach Season 9. 
> 
> Comments are the fuel of life!


	18. DN-407P

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for chapter 18 and Ever Unbending: [American Idiot (Broadway Cast) - 21 Guns](https://youtu.be/q1RKr4pWOqs/)  
> Back to back Green Day, but there is no greater song to signify the end of Paladin Danse's career than this one.

HAYLEN

Boston Airport, MA (The Prydwen)

January 6th, 2288

_“Attention, Prydwen. This is Elder Maxson. I am both pleased and appalled to inform you that the infiltrating synth unit M7-97, whom many of you know as Paladin Danse, has been destroyed. The body has been disposed of and incinerated in the field. No services will be held. Resignation number DN-407P is being retired. All records of a Paladin Danse will be immediately stricken from the Codex.”_

Haylen wilted as she processed the news, one hand to her mouth as she lingered in an alleyway. Noise swelled as uproar divided the ship. Every soul aboard either muttered or dropped something. There was a clatter as Teagan roughly slid the gate down in the supply depot. Ingram barked orders to get back to work as Haylen continued to make her way across the ship. So many people were talking that she had trouble following the rest of the address.

_“There was, regrettably, one casualty amongst our ranks. We believe that Knight Rhys’s death can be inextricably linked to the synth’s treachery. Knight Sterling will be filling a gap left in our ranks. It is my belief that we have been spared any loss of intel to the Institute. I am aware that having this knowledge come to light has been difficult for a great many of you, as it has been most devastating to me.”_

Several shouts broke out in the galley. Haylen swerved out of the way as two soldiers came to blows. Cade dove out of his clinic to break up the squabble as Maxson’s voice droned on.

_“This is an affront that the Brotherhood will need time to recover from. Nevertheless, we all have jobs to do. I expect every last one of you to push through whatever you may be feeling – be it rage, pity, disgust or confusion. We have managed to put a stop to this subterfuge and proven that the Institute will neither crush our mission nor our spirit. Ad Victorium, Brothers and Sisters.”_

Feeling as if she had been shot in the chest, Haylen folded her hands over her heart, the new Paladin’s holotags still nestled within a fist.

Danse.

Memories surfaced of long evenings spent with her division during her training as an Initiate in the Citadel. Of her and Danse offering each other their shoulder after a hard day. Her crying in his arms. Him confiding in her even when he didn’t trust himself. His warm smile and troubled eyes. Now, she could only picture him burning.

Rage and misery made her shake and she fought to not lose sight of her duty. She climbed the stairs to the command deck, overhearing Kells putting nonsense to rest as she approached Maxson’s command center.

Enjoying the anonymity that many Scribes faced on board, she loitered at the entryway, no one paying her any attention. Sterling stood at attention before Maxson, his back to her. He was out of his power armor, wearing his orange Brotherhood flight suit and regulation combat armor, hands clasped behind him, shoulders thrown back.

“I know that you viewed the synth to be your friend,” Maxson was telling him. “Nevertheless, you have done me proud, proving that my assumptions about you have been correct. I knew that you wouldn’t let me down.”

“Thank you, Sir. As requested, I have the unit’s holotags.” Sterling held out his hand, loops of chain slipping out between his fingers. Stalking back and forth, Maxson waved the tags way. “You should discard them. I have no need for reminders of this atrocity. Now, we can finally move on and turn our attentions to the Railroad. I’ll need your intel.”

Sterling withdrew his hand, pocketing Danse’s tags. “Of course, Sir. It may take me some time to locate their new base. They tend to not remain in one location for very long. My sources point to the coastline.”

“I understand. Your diligence has been notable, Paladin. You’re a prime example of what the Brotherhood stands for.” Maxson strode to a side table and picked up a key. He tossed it to Sterling. “The traitor’s quarters and belongings are yours. Let me know when you have uncovered additional information for us.”

“I will. Thank you, Elder.” They traded salutes.

Haylen melted into a corner as the Paladin passed her by. She followed him up the ladder, waiting at the top until he had worked the lock and entered his new room. Standing in the doorway, she watched as Sterling wearily shed his combat armor, depositing each piece heavily onto the bed, rolling his shoulders once he was less encumbered. Danse’s quarters were just as Spartan as she recalled; devoid of personality, it had only been a place for sleep and storage. Danse had failed to remove his dog’s items even after the loss of the Mastiff, Rhombus, as evidenced by the food bowl and chow cans present. She recalled how the squires would lay on the floor as the puppy had wiggled and licked at them. But that had been years ago, and this room hadn’t seen much joy since. Watching Sterling pick up items, moving through the bottles and memories, lit an angry fire in her heart.

“Sir,” she addressed, curtly, holding out his tags by the chain. “I’m supposed to deliver these to you.” _Paladin Sterling_ , they read as they dangled. _SL-818P._ He appeared so proud, chest puffed full, chin held high as he took them from her. She hated the sight of him. “They never found Rhys’ murderer,” she said, emotion overriding good sense. “Was that your handiwork, too? Did he get in your way? Anything for a promotion, right?” Although he remained still, his brow creased. He brought his fingers up to rub at his eyes. “ _Paladin_ ,” she spat in insult. “You’re still some ladder-climbing vault rat that just happened to stumble onto my signal. How dare you stand here – in his room, in his place. He trusted you. _I_ trusted you! You’re no hero!” She slapped him in the face. “You’re just a mercenary in a decent suit of armor!”

His mouth opened and shock made his eyes widen. Finally, a reaction.  “Haylen…”

She tore out of the door, leaving him before she could fully process what she had just done, nearly running as she turned corners, climbing higher and higher. She had struck a commanding officer. Her days with the Brotherhood were over. Heavier footfalls chased hers, and she knew that he was after her. She took a final turn and ran, the door to the forecastle squarely at the end of the corridor. When she approached the exit, she faltered. Pulling a solid about-face, she spun and faced him. _Paladin_ , she thought again, the idea making her sick. This was still just Nate, some man who was lucky enough to even still be alive. Some man that had managed to end Danse.

As he advanced on her, she planted a hand against his solid chest. “Haylen.” His hands rose to take hold of her. A second hand joined her first, shoving him away. This time, he did grab her, taking hold of her wrists. He spun her around so that his arms circled her. Clumsily, he rotated the handle of the door with an elbow. The door swung open and he pulled her out with him into the morning air, hauling her forcefully out of the way to kick the door shut behind them.

“What are you doing?” she screamed at him. “Nate, don’t –”

He clapped a hand over her mouth. “Haylen, stop.” He was strong and easily overpowered her, dragging her backwards out to the very tip of the bow. For one terrifying moment she wondered if he would throw her overboard.

Standing at the very most forward tip, he brought his face close to hers. “Haylen, I need you to stop and listen to me very carefully,” he said as she struggled in his arms. She turned her face towards him. The rigging creaked as wind whipped at both of their faces, making his hair dance along his forehead. His dark eyes locked onto hers and she nodded against his palm. He didn’t blink as he looked at her, his words very deliberate. “You should come visit me at my old home when you can.  It may not be much to look at, but you’d be amazing to see what’s there now. I still call it Sanctuary for a reason. And so do my friends.” He removed his hand from her mouth.

Haylen stared at him as he released her. Her brain was firing at an amazingly slow rate. Then, she understood. “Oh. Oh!” Danse was safe and Nate had played a part in that. She threw her arms about his neck. He patted her back just as awkwardly as Danse had.

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t have you shouting at me in the middle of the ship. The _incinerated_ bit was my idea. Wouldn’t be anything left for the Institute to try and claim. He’s safe. For now. Look,” Nate said, pulling out of her embrace.  He looked much older than he had when he first walked into the police station; purple smudges marked the bags under his eyes. “I want you to know that I have no plans to betray the Brotherhood. I also don’t plan on betraying anyone else. How long I can last in this position, I can’t say. I don’t have enough pieces yet to make a decision – no one group is without their faults. Maybe I’m an idealist, assuming that, somehow, we can all coexist. But I find that unlikely, at least for the moment. Right now, we all have to play our parts.”

He pointed to the door leading back into the ship. “Watch and listen. You saw it – there’s a crack down the center of the Brotherhood now. The days of blindly following orders are over. Maxson…he does not have the best interests of the Commonwealth at heart and I feel you know that. Danse was too convincing as a synth. Half the ship is torn over this. Now there’s doubt that everything is as a simple as _us versus them_.” Nate gaze was lost somewhere over the edge of the bow. She followed his line of sight down to the crumbling Boston skyline. “A war isn’t coming – it’s already here. And when it’s over, nothing is going to be the same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, folks! Thanks for taking this ride with me!
> 
> Join me for Season 3: Home - A Far Harbor adaptation.

**Author's Note:**

> A note on notes: I will always post a link to a thematic song cover that I feel matches the tone of that specific chapter at the very top of the notes, above the name of the character we are following. I believe that listening to this piece of music will heighten my intent - things are funnier, or more intense, or really, really fucking sad - and great care has been taken to get each song selection just right. I will always post the title of the upcoming work as well along with occasional behind-the-scenes info. (But, please, really do listen to the music - it goes hand in hand with the story.)
> 
> Welcome to Season Two! I hope this starts off with a bang! In many ways I feel that Season One was just me feeling out the series before I really got down into the meat of the tale that I really want to tell. If you're just joining me for the first time, please go back and read the first story (or else things will be very confusing) and be sure to let me know what you think.
> 
> I would like to thank my amazing beta, [fangirlanonymous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous/), for all of her help on both of these seasons.
> 
> Please leave me comments and kudos below!  
> \-- General Lee


End file.
